


The Curve

by insideabunker



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - Sports, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Baseball, Baseball Pitcher Lexa, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Reporter Clarke, Sexism, Sports, Writer Clarke Griffin, charming lexa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-09-03 05:07:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8698210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insideabunker/pseuds/insideabunker
Summary: Clarke is a working as an editorial intern for a small newspaper in Savannah Georgia when she is assigned to cover a story regarding the local, Advanced A-Class, minor league baseball team.  Her subject: the teams new phenom pitcher, Lexa Woods, the first woman drafted by a major league ball club.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt for a one shot that became something more. Hope you guys like this! This is going to be a few more chapters long, but the rest of it may be Tumblr only, we will see.
> 
> Also...
> 
> While I make the final decisions about where the story goes, I also love getting feedback, and I am always open to your suggestions. If you guys have strong feelings/ideas about where you're hoping the story goes, let me know! The best way to reach me is via Twitter, since I get those updates on my phone and it's easy for me to response right away: https://twitter.com/insideabunker
> 
> However, you can also leave comments on here, or hit me up on Tumblr: http://insideabunker.tumblr.com/ Love seeing those messages in my inbox ;)
> 
> Anyway, hope you all enjoy the story!  
> Cheers!

Preseason

Just before sunrise, the dimly light field seemed all but abandoned. Then, a swish of netting and the clink of metal hog-rings echoed through the vast emptiness, betraying the presence of the ballpark’s sole occupant. As dawn began to break, the young pitcher allowed herself a moment to rest, watching the sun as it came up. Something about the way the light poured in over the top of the outfield wall, casting scattered beams across the silent, cavernous grandstand, made the ballpark seem like an empty cathedral. Indeed, mornings like this one were as close as it came to church for Lexa. The mound of earth beneath her was her center of worship, her confession booth, the place where she came to exercise all of her existential uncertainty. She ran a forearm across her sweaty brow, and reveled in the feeling of the morning breeze as it soothed her hot skin. “Thank g-d it’s still April,” she though, “at least it’s not humid yet.”

______________________________________

That it was cool, and thankfully dry, was about all Clarke could say of her morning. Things had gone form bad to worse from the moment her alarm had gone off, and as her old Civic squealed to a stop in the parking lot of the old ballpark, she closed her eyes, letting the many frustrations of the past few hours wash over her.

It had started with the lack of hot water at her apartment, a problem her landlord had sworn, two days ago, would be fixed. Her bad luck continued with a parking ticket that had been waiting for her on her windshield. Then, on the way to the park, a car in front of her had stopped short. Clarke had slammed on on her breaks in time to avoid a collision, but the sudden stop had also sent hot coffee splashing all over her blouse.

She dabbed at the stains futilely, mulling over whether she should just call and cancel the meeting altogether. She groaned, as she considered the prospect of spending the next few hours talking to someone whose sole accomplishment in life was throwing a baseball well. Granted, the pitcher was supposed to be some kind of phenom, but then again this was only Class A-Advance ball, and the worst team in the league.

A sports-based, human interest piece was the last thing she wanted to cap her remarkably trying morning off with. None-the-less, it was the first real assignment she’d be given at the Savannah Gazette, and Clarke reminded herself that even if the paper was provincial, and poorly circulated, and barely covered stories not pertaining to the mid-sized city it served, it was still a real job, and she was still a real journalist. She sighed, looking at her stained blouse and resigning herself to the knowledge that, unkempt or not, she would still have to conduct the interview.

Resigned to her fate, Clarke climbed out of the old car and shut the squealing, dented door forcefully, not bothering to lock it as she made her way towards the ballpark entrance. The old Civic was almost certainly worth more stolen than not, and anyone willing to steal the rusted-out clunker was surely the least ambitious thief on earth. A bar that low was its own punishment, in Clarke’s opinion. She made her way through the concrete tunnels of the park until she reached a door marked “PLAYERS AND COACHES ONLY.”

Three knocks, and the door was answered by a gentleman who would have seemed very much at home in a gladiatorial arena. Clarke presented her press pass, explaining that she had been sent by the paper to interview the new pitcher, and he silently ushered her through the locker room and and up a flight of stairs into a gym, pointing to the back corner with an enormous hand. “She’s over there with the trainer.”

Clarke made her way through the sea of exercise machines, free weights and sweaty, shirtless athletes, doing her best not to be annoyed by the multiple sets of eyes she felt following her. Finally, she reached the row of power racks, lined up along the mirrored back wall. In the far corner, two men in polo shirts stood over someone who was groaning loudly, attempting to benchpress an impressive looking amount of weight.

The person’s face was obscured by their spotters, but Clarke watched as the muscular set of arms caught in the middle of the press, shook for a moment, and then made a final, powerful thrust upward, locking out and letting the weight drop onto the bar catcher. The two spotters hollered their approval, clapping their hands and exchanged high fives with the person on the bench.

One of the men grabbed a binder off of the floor, eagerly jotting down few notes and he continued issue praise. “G-d damn Woods, that’s 185! You’re a fucking beast, do you know that?” The man smiled, tapping his companion on the shoulder and pointing to something in the binder. “Keep it up kid.” He patted the seated figure on the back, before handing the binder to the man next to him, and pointing to another athlete across the gym. The men walked off in the direction of a young man who was struggling to lift weight plates onto a rack, leaving the figure on the bench finally unobscured.

The figure on the bench finally sat up, and Clarke found herself taken aback by the appearance of the woman in front of her. There was no question that the woman was an extremely well conditioned athlete. Every inch of her was sculpted by muscle and sinew. However, Clarke was surprise to realize that she was short, not by average standards, but certainly much shorter than one would expect a professional baseball pitcher to be, 5‘ 7”, 5’ 8” perhaps.

Moreover, she looked quite young, much younger than the 24 years listed on the pre-interview notes Clarke had been given. What shocked Clarke the most though, was that the woman was startlingly attractive. She didn’t like admitting it to herself, but when Clarke had been informed that she’d be interviewing major league baseball’s first female draftee, she’d imagined a different picture entirely, someone a little more plain perhaps, or even a bit on the gangly side. She certainly hadn’t expected sun kissed skin, high cheekbones, and bright green eyes. Clarke was disarmed by how unlikely it seemed that this person was a professional athlete.

Lexa grabbed a worn towel off the floor and stood, wiping the sweat that poured from her face and neck as she made her way over to the blonde in the grumpy looking blonde, in the coffee stained shirt. The young pitcher did her best to hide her surprise as she summed up the young woman in front of her. When she’d hard that a journalist had been coming to talk to her, she’d expected someone more typical looking for sports writer, someone older perhaps, slightly overweight and well… A man. She hadn’t been expecting a gorgeous blonde to show up in her weight room. What was more, something looked oddly familiar about the woman. Lexa felt sure she had seen her somewhere before.

Lexa extended her arm, and enveloped the woman’s tiny hand in her firm, calloused grip, shaking it vigorously.

“I’m Lexa Woods. You must be the staff writer from the Gazette.”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “Well… Intern, technically. If this interview goes well though, we’ll see. I’m Clarke, by the way.”

“Well, in that case I’ll try to make myself as interesting as possible for you. Did you wanna do this in here?”

Clarke gazed around the room at the gaggle of sweaty men, staring at them over the tops of leg press machines and free weights. “As charming as this place is,” Clarke deadpanned, looking around the room, and grimacing, “it’s not really the best place to conduct an interview. Is there somewhere more private we could go?”

Two extremely sweaty outfielders walked based the two women, leaving a powerful musk in their wake. Clarke screwed up her face in disgust. “Perhaps, somewhere that doesn’t smell quite so much like sweaty balls?”

Lexa laughed nervously, surprised by the reporter’s candor. “Sure. There’s a wives lounge just off the locker room. We could head there if you like.”

Clarke nodded, trying not to roll here eyes at the notion of dutiful baseball wives, waiting out home games in separate room. “That sounds fine.”

A few minutes later Lexa and Clarke sat across from each other on the two small couches that took up most of the room. Clarke couldn’t help but notice that the tiny coffee table in front of her was littered with old copies of Good Housekeeping, Woman’s Day, Family Circle and Ladies' Home Journal, while the end tables on either side of the couches were stocked with boxes of tissues. The room looked as though it had been set up by someone who’s only knowledge of women came from 1950’s stereotypes.

Clarke stared up at the woman across from her, struck by the odd juxtaposition created by a groundbreaking, female athlete, sitting in a room full of terrible clichés. The brunette cleared her throat, looking over at her apologetically. Clarke sighed, more then ready to get the interview over with.

“So, up early this morning I hear.”   
Lexa bobbed nervously, trying not to feel awkward with the beautiful, blonde reporter staring at her. “Oh yeah. I like to get here around 6:00AM so I can have the field to myself for a bit and clear my head. It’s a morning ritual, like yoga, you know?”

“You mean, do I know what yoga is?”

Lexa giggled shaking her head. “No, I mean, do you have a morning ritual?”

Clarke sighed. “In spite of having graduated cum laude from an Berkeley, and doing post-grad at Columbia, I’ve spent the last six months going on coffee runs and getting people sandwiches… So, typically I like to begin my mornings by crying over my masters degree.” Clarke tried not to betray her lack of interest in the small talk as she gave the sarcastic, off hand answer.

Lexa laughed, taken aback by the young reporter’s acerbic response. She tried not to feel offended, but began to realize that the blonde was than enthusiastic about conduct the interview. “Well,” Lexa rationalized, “she’s definitely witty.” The pitcher glanced over at the reporter, who was now digging through her bag. Lexa tried her best not to notice how revealing the blonde’s blouse became when she bent over. Lexa averted her gaze, unable to ignore the sight before her.

“So, Clarke, what is it you want to know about me exactly?”

Clarke pulled a notepad and a pen from her bag, crossing her legs as she balanced the former on her lap. “How about we start with how you got into baseball in the first place?”

Lexa smiled. “My dad. He grew up playing, and he was really excited about the getting my twin brother, Levi, involved, but he never pressured me to play. I mean, he had absolutely no experience with little girls, so I think he assumed I wouldn’t be interested.”

Lexa noticed that how Clarke’s eyes rolled at the statement, but decided to ignore it. “When we were four, he signed Levi up for Tee-ball. He brought me with them to the first practice, and we sat in the stands, watching Levi bat. When I asked my dad if I could have a turn, and he told me that it was only for Levi, and I started crying. I wouldn’t stop until he agreed to take me down to the field to bat. I ended up hitting the ball farther than any of the boys.”

Clarke finished scribbling a few more lines on her pad, and gazed over at the pitcher unenthusiastically. “So you were a natural form the start?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that. I think, when I was little, playing baseball was mostly about doing whatever my twin did. It wasn’t until later that I realized that I had a passion for it.”

“Mmhm.” She glanced up momentarily. “Can you describe what that moment was.”

Lexa smiled coyly, a hint of a sparkle in her eye. “It was the first time I pitched. A few friends and I were playing a pickup game in the field behind my house, and my dad was catching for us. Everybody was really excited because the little league division we played in was about to switch from coach-pitch to player-pitcher.”

Clarke jotting down a note or two and waiting for Lexa to continue.

“One of our friends, Bobby Lattner, was trying to strike Levi out, but he kept hitting line drives. I told him not to worry because he’d probably get better with a little more practice, and Bobby got really mad. He turned bright red and yelled at me “Why don't you try it then, if you think its so easy!”

She looked back at Clarke, grinning like a cheshire cat. “I remember being really nervous. I’d never even thought about pitching, and I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of my friends. When Bobby gave me the ball my hands were shaking, but I walked over to where he’d been standing, and I lined myself up the way I saw pitchers do on TV.”

Lexa bit her lip running a hand through her hair and closing her eyes for a moment as she inhaled a deep, slow breath. “All of a sudden, I felt this calm come over me. When I wound up to throw, it felt completely natural. I remember the way the ball felt as it left my hand, I remember the way it sounded when it hit the inside of my father’s glove, and I just I knew… I was never going to love anything as much as I loved pitching. After the game, my father pulled me aside and asked me who had taught me to pitch. When I told him that nobody had, he gave me this look, like he was about to go over a drop on a rollercoaster. I think that was the moment he realized that I had real talent.”

Clarke nodded, her eyes trained on the notepad as she continued to jot down bits and pieces of the conversation. “Did he pressure you to stick with baseball instead of switching to softball?”

Lexa shifted anxiously, uncomfortable with the question. “Not really. When I got to high school I tried switching to softball for about a week, but to be honest with you I couldn’t pitch as well throwing underhand.”

Clarke shot a doubtful look at the young ballplayer, cocked an eyebrow skeptically. “You’re telling me the big, bad, trail-blazing female pitcher couldn't get the hang of fast-pitch?”

Something about the blonde’s dry, sarcasm ate at Lexa, and her cheeks flushed a subtle pink as she shrugged. “I’d been throwing overhand my whole life, and I didn’t really feel like spending a season on the bench while I picked up a new skill set. After that first week, my dad and I went to the boy’s baseball coach at my high school. He was an old friend of my uncle’s, so he agreed to give me a late tryout. He had some pretty huge reservations about having a girl on the team, but once he saw me pitch, he decided that taking me on was worth the criticism.”

Clarke glanced up at the pitcher expectantly, her interest peaking for the first time. “Was that a big deal, you playing on a boys team?”

“Yeah, of course. I mean, not really when we were little because there were other girls. By the time I joined a travel team though, I was pretty much the only girl, and when we’d go to other towns, people would definitely make comments.”

“What kind of comments?”

“Mostly questions about whether or not I could really play. It usually stopped once I’d struck out a few batters. High school was different. It was… Bad.”

Clarke held up her hand, pausing Lexa before she could continue. “What made it so bad exactly?”

The young pitcher shifted uncomfortably in her seat, scratching the back of her neck awkwardly and shifting her mouth form side to side, clearly hesitant to answer the question. She stared at Clarke for a moment, an intensity look in her green eyes.

“Listen… This article you’re writing, it isn’t going to all about the hardships of being a woman in a mens sport, is it?”

The question took Clarke by surprise. Truthfully, she’d assumed that Lexa would be more than happy to pour her heart out when it came to gender dynamics in sports. She considered the young woman across from her, realizing how uncomfortable she’d become in the last few moments. 

“Hey, if you need a minute or two to warm up to this subject, that’s ok. We can talk off the record for a bit.”

“It’s not that.”

Clarke leaned forward intently, waiting for her to continue.

“You didn’t choose to do this interview voluntarily, did you?”

This question startled Clarke even more. She went stiff, her back straightening abruptly, and her pulse racing a bit as she raked her brain for an answer that would allow her to save face. She decided stalling was the best option.

“Why do you say that?”

Lexa rolled here eyes. “Honestly, it’s kind obvious. You don’t exactly seem thrilled to be here, and based on the academic pedigree you mentioned earlier, I’m guessing you didn’t go into journalism to become a sports writer.”

Clarke fixed her gaze on Lexa, trying not to betray how nervous the young woman’s accuracy was making her. “I’ll admit, I don’t really like baseball, but you don’t exactly get to pick your assignments as an intern. Besides, a good journalist can make any story a compelling one.”

Lexa narrowed her eyes seriously. “And, you thought you’d make my story compelling by writing all about a how terribly it’s been for me to be a female baseball player.”

The assertion was spot on. Clarke stared at Lexa for a moment, dumbstruck. When she finally regained her composure, she picked the notepad off her lap and dropped it on the floor next to her. “Ok, fine.” She exhaled forcefully, staring up at Lexa with a look of annoyance and exasperation. “That’s more or less the article I was going to write. Is that so wrong?”

Lexa’s jaw clenched. “I mean, I just think it’s a little reductive. Don’t you?”

Clark’s balked at the comment. “Reductive?” Now, she was angry. Wounded by the insinuation, and feeling provoked , she responded with as much sarcasm as she could muster. “That’s a pretty big word for jock.”

Lexa’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t go to an Ivy League but I did manage read a book or two in college.”

The dig unsettled Clarke, and she pursed her lips irritatedly. “Well, I’d rather write about a woman breaking barriers then some generic, up-and-coming prospect, sports story. I mean it’s just baseball.”

“What’s wrong with baseball?” 

“Nothing, it just…” Clarke paused, trying to bite her tongue.

Lexa would have none of it, however. The brunette leaned forward, staring the reporter dead in the eye. “Just what?”

“It’s just a game!,” Clarke finally snapped. “Right now there’s a civil war in Syria, the largest refugee crisis in history, problems with the EU, and a presidential election coming up. Baseball isn’t actually important.” Clarke temper had risen a little, over-emphasizing each word. “It. Is. Just. A. Game. Excuse me if I think there are more important things to write about. Excuse me for trying to take a bad assignment and give it some meaning.”

Clarke groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. She ran a had through her hair and closed her eyes. When she finally looked at Lexa again, she was surprised to find that her expression had softened. Clarke dropped her head, letting out a slow breath. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

Lexa crossed her arms, allowing herself to fall back against the couch, letting out a breath she’d been holding. “Yes you did, but it’s ok. I know it’s just a game. I know that I’m not inventing a cure for cancer, or helping end world hunger, but I’d like to think that in a small way, what I do matters.”

“How do you suppose?”

Lexa sighed, taking time to think about her next statement. “Over 100 million Americans come to baseball games every year. I’d like to think that, when they do, they’re looking for more then nine innings, and cheap beer and hot dogs.”

“What is it you think they’re looking for.”

Lexa settled back in her chair, her temper returned to baseline. “I think that, for a lot of people, watching baseball is like going to church. They are looking to believe in something bigger than themselves. I think they’re looking to be inspired, to witness the impossible, and baseball players are in a unique position to provide that.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow, looking over at her companion skeptically. “How so?”

Lexa She smiled a little, retreating into herself shyly as she answered. “This game, it’s not like football, or basketball. To play those sports, you have to be a superman. Baseball is a game of supermen, but it’s also a game of everymen. For ever Nolan Ryan or Randy Johnson there’s a Jim Abbott or a Tim Wakefield. For every Barry Bonds there’s a Scott Hatteberg, for every 1998 Yankees, there’s a 2004 Red Sox. Underdogs can make it in this game, and I think people want to see that. I think people need to see that. People need a reason to believe in long shots, and small miracles, especially with the world the way you say it is.”

Lexa fixed her eyes on Clarke, staring at her intensely. “Baseball is just a game, but just occasionally, it’s a game that helps gives people hope about life.”

Clarke crossed her armed and stared contemplatively at the young pitcher. She leaned back in her chair, consider Lexa’s speech. It had been passionate, and surprisingly touching, and she had to admit that the argument was not without merit. She uncrossed her arms and hunched over, resting her elbows on her knees and giving Lexa an earnestly smile. “Look, what do you want meet write?”

“The same thing that any prospect would. I just want you to write about my 2.13 ERA or the fact that I’ve pitched two perfect games since I made my debut in the farm system, but nobody ever writes about that. All anyone ever writes about is how terrible male athlete are to me, and how much I’ve “overcome.” Lexa waived her fingers, making air quotes. “All that does is egg on the teammates who don’t want here, and alienate the ones who do.”

“So you want everyone to just ignore the fact that that you’re the first woman to be drafted by a major league club?”

“No, but I want to be defined by my accomplishments amongst my peers, not by my proximity to them. Besides, I haven’t actually made it to the show yet. It’s not going to matter how much I’ve overcome if the furthest I ever get is High-A. When I make it to the majors, then people can write about me overcoming hardships. Until then, I need reporters to focus on the fact that I really am talented. That way when people read articles about me, including the people who making decisions about advancing me, they’ll be noticing me for the right reasons.”

Clarke had to admit, Lexa’s point had a good one. She picked the notepad up off the ground and made a line through the last note she had taken. She looked back at Lexa. “Look, how about this? I promise to write an article that focuses on your accomplishments as a ballplayer first. I can’t leave your gender out of it completely because, to be honest, that’s not the story my paper wants me to tell. But, as long as you promise to be honest with me about what you’ve experienced, I promise not to make it my primary focus.”

Lexa stared Clarke down for moment. The young woman’s green eyes burned so intensely, Clarke felt as though they were going to burn a hole right through her. Finally Lexa nodded, folding her arms across her chest and settling back into her seat. “Fine, but on one condition.”

“Which is?”

Lexa smiled triumphantly. “You have to tell me why you don’t like baseball?”

Clarke chuckled, clicking her pen. “First, you tell me about high school.”

“It was hard. I mean, I had friends. My brother was also on the team, and I grew up playing with some of the guys, but a lot of the other players were really upset that they let me join. The parents were worse. My coach ended up having to have this big meeting with all of them. A lot of them said I would be a distraction to their sons. Half of them complained that allowing me to be on the team was unfair because I was taking playing time away from boys who actually had a chance to get scouted. The other half complained that because I need separate facilities whenever we traveled, I would end up taking money away form the rest of the team.”

Clarke screwed up her face at the notion of such small minded thinking. “Was that true?”

“No! I mean when we went other school I would just use the girl’s locker room, and when we did go on overnight trips, like for tournaments or state, I would share a room with my brother.”

“Was that the worst of it?”

“No. I mean, within the team there were definitely some problems, at first. It all peaked when I became a starting pitcher as a sophomore, but I played well, and we stated winning. The noise died down pretty quickly after that.

Clarke smiled Lexa, shooting her a knowing look. “Hard to complain when you’re winning I guess.”

“Exactly. Plus, my coach, and the administration were relatively protective of me, so any problems coming form inside my school were always pretty limited. They didn’t have any control over players and students form other schools though. That was where the real problems came from.”

Lexa puffed out her cheeks, stretching out in her chair as her mind turned to unpleasant memories. Clarke watched as the pitcher grew nostalgic, noting the shift in her mood.

Lexa swallowed and ran a hand through her hair. “It wasn’t every game, and it wasn’t always terrible, but most of the time there were hecklers, or someone on the other team would make a point of saying something nasty to try and get in my head.”

Clarke nodded, but didn’t press Lexa to finish. She waited patiently, as the brunette grew contemplative, working through what to talk about. Finally, Lexa continued her story. “My Sophomore year we made the state playoffs, and ended up getting as far as regionals. The year after that we were got knocked out in the semi-finals. The more we won, the more people would show up to heckle me, and the nastier the other teams would be. The only really big incident happened my Senior year, right before the state championship.”

Lexa leaned over and rested her elbows on her knees, scratching the back of her neck the on hand. “We were set to play North Salem in the finals. At the time, the number one prospect in the country, Andrew Sellers, was a Senior on their team. Most people though I wouldn’t be able to pitch against him.”

“And you proved them wrong?”

Lexa’s face fell. She shook her head, looking at the ground. “No. A few days before the game some players from North Salem broke into the locker room at our ballpark and… Well they trashed the place, and spray painted some pretty explicit messages about me.”

A look of horror crossed Clarke’s face as she realized what Lexa was saying. “That’s horrible Lexa.”

The pitcher nodded. “Yeah, it was. The worst part though was that when they caught the players that did it, one of them turned out to be Sellers. All thee of them were banned from playing for the rest of the season. We ended up winning the state championship, but the fact that Sellers hadn’t play put a pretty dark cloud over the victory. People felt that if Sellers had been there, we would have lost. I ended up feeling like I hadn’t gotten to prove myself; hadn’t earned the win.”

“What happened to those three guys other than not being able to play? Were they disciplined at all?”

“Not really. Two of them were suspended for a week for, but Sellers just missed the one game. He ended up being drafted out of high school by the Philadelphia Phillies, but he differed and ended up playing baseball as Texas Tech.”

“So did you get a chance to pitch agains him in college?”

Lexa laughed heartily at the comment, taking Clarke completely by surprise. The blonde looked back up at her, confused. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just… Didn’t your paper vet you for this at all?

Clarke shrugged. “They gave me a few notes.”

Lexa shook her head, rolling her eyes as she resettled herself. “No I didn’t get a chance to pitch against him again. The thing is, event hough I was one of the top ranked pitchers in my state, up to that championship game I hadn’t received a single scholarship offer, much less one from a big, Division I program like Texas Tech. I honestly though high school was going to be the end of the road for me. Then, in the post season, a recruiter from Millerville approached me and made me a late offer. I knew it was the only one I scholarship opportunity I was going to get, and they were a good Division II program, so I took it. I ended up winning back to back national titles with that team.”

Clarke smiled at the girl across form her. “Were you surprised when you were drafted after that last title?”

“Yes, absolutely. In high school, I had a scout tell me that he though I might have had a shot at being included low in the draft, if I had been a boy. But, I’m not, and I played for a small school, so it was easy for people to ignore me. Back then I didn’t really think being drafted was possible, so I never gave it much thought.”

Lexa scratched the back of her neck again, and closing one eye as she continued. “In college though, I went through a bit of a growth spurt, and I put on quite a bit of muscle. Suddenly I was throwing in the low 80’s, and then the mid-80’s, and then we were winning national titles. Plus, I'm a left handed pitcher, and one of the things that’s always made me competitive is that I can throw an extremely accurate knuckleball, which is a pretty rare pitch to master. It’s hard for batters to hit, even though it’s a slow pitch. Tim Wakefield threw his at about 68 mph.”

“How fast is yours?”

Lexa winked at her confidently. “It tops out around 80, and my fastball is about 5 mph faster than Wakefield’s. Anyway, after that first national title, Junior year, I really though I was going to get drafted. When I didn’t…” Lexa paused and exhaled a hard breath, “and it was pretty clear why I didn’t, I got really angry for a while. By then, I knew I was talented enough that I should have been drawing interest, and it really bothered me that I had been passed up because I was a woman. I was almost ready to quit after that.”

“But you didn’t stay angry?” Clarke searched the athletes face for signs of emotion, but found only clam resolve.

“No. Eventually, I realized how much playing had given me. I’d made lifelong friends, picked up good values, learned excellent work ethic, and gotten to go to college, all while playing a game that I loved. Plus, I’d proven that I could compete and excel amongst my peers, and opened a few doors for other girls. I decided to play my Senior season, and not worry about whether or that would be the last stop for me. By the time we won the second national title, I had made my peace with it, and I was excited to be going out on a high note. Then, somebody told me that I had been included in the draft, and I was stunned. I mean, honestly I assumed that even with that, I still wouldn’t be picked.”

The reporter smiled. “But you were.”

Lexa grinned, preparing to recite what amounted to her favorite statistic in history. “38th round, 1,139th overall.”

Clarke laughed a little at how fast Lexa had been able to rattle of her draft numbers. “Know those by heart, huh?”

Lexa smiled back at her. “Lady, if I make the majors, I’m going to have those numbers inscribed on my tombstone. I’m proud to be a long shot.”

Lexa glanced down at her watch, surprised to realize that the time had gotten away form them. “Shit.”

Clarke stopped writing. “Something wrong?”

Lexa stood, offering the woman an apologetic smile. “Hey, I’m really sorry but I have to head back upstairs to go over game tapes with the coaches.”

Clarke searched her notes nervously, fully aware that she hadn’t gotten half the questions she’d been assigned to ask answered yet. “But, we haven’t even talked about your time in the farm system yet. Can’t you stay for a few more minutes.”

Lexa gave Clarke a sympathetic look, grabbing her water bottle off the table. “I’m sorry but I really can’t. If a player is late the whole team does wind sprints, and I don’t want to make enemies on this team before we even start the season.”

“Do you have more time later in the day?”

Lexa shrugged as she headed for the door. “Honestly today is a busy day. When is your deadline?”

Clarke grimaced. “Tomorrow afternoon.”

Lexa shrugged, her body already halfway through he door. “I guess you could give your number to one of the managers. We can try to finish this over the phone if I have a free moment this afternoon.”

Clarke nodded, disappointedly. “Yeah, ok.”

With the, Lexa disappeared through the doorway, reappearing a moment later with a smug look on her face. “Have dinner with me.”

“What?”

Lexa gave her a cocky but sheepish grin, biting her lower lip. “What if you had dinner with me? Tonight, so we can finish the interview.”

Clarke hesitated to speak, allowing the notion to marinate in her head. “You mean, like a date?”

Lexa winked at her smugly. “Sure, if you insist on calling it that.”

Clarke balked. “I didn’t…”

Before she could finish Lexa raised a hand to cut her off. “Look, it’s the only time I’m not doing anything, and you need to get all your questions answered. Plus, you still owe me an answer as to why you don’t like baseball.”

Clarke sighed, shooting the pitcher an exhausted look. “Fine, but it’s…”

“A date, I know. But, only since you insist on calling it that.”

Clarke screwed up her face in annoyance, as Lexa disappeared again, reappearing a second time to finalize the details. “Bella Napoli at eight, ok?” She disappeared a second later, not waiting for an answer.”

Clarke rolled her eyes, dashing into the hallway as the pitcher headed for the stairs to the clubhouse. “It’s not…”

Lexa turned back quickly, a mischievous smile on her face. “Casual, I get it! You want it to be a date!”

Clarke covered her eyes with her hand, groaning in frustration as the Lexa disappeared from view.

______________________________________

Lexa stared at the checkered table cloth and shuffle her feet, fiddling with her blouse compulsively. She gazed down at her outfit, considering for the hundredth time that evening if she should have worn something different. Lexa had chosen a silky, v-neck blouse, black jeggings, a black leather jacket and matching ankle boots. Her hair was down, tamed and straightened for once, and her face betrayed the subtlest hint of makeup. She’d gone over the look at least ten times before leaving her apartment, decided it was exactly the right combination of dressy and nonchalant. Now though, she worried that the ensemble made her look like she was trying too hard, and she wondered if she wouldn’t have been better off not dressing up at all. After all, what if Clarke showed up in a t-shirt and jeans? The thought the embarrassment that scenario would cause only worsened Lexa’s nerves.

To make matters worse, she was early. In fact, she was remarkably early, even for someone who made it a point to arrive fifteen minutes ahead of time to everything. When the hostess had made note of it, Lexa had dismiss her premature arrival as the byproduct of poor timing. The truth however, was that Lexa had forced herself out the door of her tiny, rented room a full forty five minutes early, afraid that the longer she waited, the more likely she would be to back out of the dinner all together.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. Though she could hardly be described as shy when it came to women, moments of cocky abandon were rather rare for the young pitcher. In the aftermath of her impromptu suggestion of dinner, the full weight of what Lexa had done finally began sinking in for her, and soon she was confronted with the reality that she had asked out a woman who was, for all she knew, completely uninterested in her. Sitting alone at the tiny restaurant table, Lexa found herself wondering if Clarke would bother showing up at all. When she really though about it, the reporter hadn’t actually said yes to the invitation, though in all fairness, she hadn’t said no either… at least not specifically. Resigned to the knowledge that she might well be eating alone, Lexa sighed, checking her watch. The long hand on the dial pointed ominously at a tick mark just to the left of 12. “7:58,” Lexa thought, “home stretch.”

“I think the reservation is under Woods.”

Lexa, pulse quickened when she overheard the sound of Clarke’s voice.

“Right this way ma’am.”

She readjusted her top one more time, and stood, watching as the hostess appeared around the corner, the reporter in tow. Lexa’s breath caught in her through when she saw Clarke. She was wearing a light green dress. It wasn’t fancy, or showy, or even particularly sexy, but it was a dress, and and Clarke looked beautiful in it. Her hair was up, pulled back with a few loose strands framing her face and earrings, and between the subtle makeup and the mood lighting, Clarke’s skin appeared to be glowing. She was radiant, there was no other word for it. Lexa waited until the hostess had seated Clarke and placed two menu’s on the table before she settled back into her chair. She could barely contain her smile as she gazed at the woman across from her.

“You wore a dress.”

“I did.”

Lexa smiled, winking. “And you said it wasn’t a date.”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “Well,” Clarke shifted in her seat, smiling smugly as she peered over at Lexa. “To be honest this is the first times anyone’s asked me out since I moved here.” She shrugged. “Date or not, its nice to have a reason to dress up.”

“But it’s not a date?”

“I’m a journalist. I don’t date people I’m profiling.”

Lexa smirked. “Well, date or not, you look beautiful.”

“Don’t push your luck” Clarke tried her hardest to look and sound stern, though Lexa couldn’t help but noticed the way her cheeks flushed, or how the reporter couldn’t quite look her in the eye as she spoke.

Forty minutes later Lexa was laughing over red wine and bites of puttanesca as Clarke animatedly related a story the first article she worked on for her college paper.

“I was so humiliated, it was terrible! The Senior editor literally took a red pen and crossed out ever other page. My whole article ended up getting reduced to a paragraph and a half.”

Clarke took a sip of her wine, and smiled softly. “You know we really should get to the rest of my interview questions.”

“Damn, and we were just beginning to talk so nicely.” Lexa grinned, setting down her fork. “Shoot.”

“I promise I’ll make it as painless as possible.” Clarke smiled apologetically, pulling a pen and a small note pad from her pulse, and leaning into the table as she reviewed a bullet list of questions. “We’ll go slow. I never actually got you to state your full name, so why don’t we stat with that.

“Like, middle name and everything?”

“Sure”

“Lexa Jane Woods.”

“Lexa isn’t short for something?”

“Nope. My parents kids of had this theme for all their kids, short first names and a middle name that started with J.

“And how many of you are there exactly… Kids in your family I mean?”

“Three. Besides me there’s my twin broth Levi Joe, who’s older by six minutes, and my younger brother, Aden Jay, who’s fourteen.”

Clarke nodded. “So you're the only girl?”  
Lexa nearly spit her wine out as she attempted to hold in belly laugh that Clarke’s question elicited. She covering her mouth with her hand and forced herself to swallow, her eyes watering as she forced back her giggles. “That’s a major understatement! I’m actually the only daughter in my entire family, like… with cousins and everything. My mom was an only child, but my dad, Joe, has four brothers Frank, Jim, Tom and Eddie. Frank has four sons, Tom has five, and Jim and Eddie both have three. Plus Levi and Aden that’s seventeen boys in all, and I was the only girl.

“Goodness… That seems like way too much testosterone for one family!” Clarke’s eyes were wide as she pictured what the Woods family gatherings must look like. “You parent’s must have been excited when they found out you were going to be a girl.”

“Actually my mother had no idea she was pregnant with twins.”

Lexa held out her glass as a waiter appears to refill their wine. “Apparently, every time they gave her an ultrasound I was hiding behind my brother, and our heartbeats were in sync. The day we were born, all of my uncles and aunts showed up at the hospital to meet the new baby. When got to my mother’s room she was sitting in bed holding Levi, but my father had his back to them. Then he turned around and everyone saw that he was hold me. Our family was completely stunned. After we were born it kind of became this running joke. Uncle Frank always says that the Woods women wanted another girl around so badly that they conspired to sneak me in under the radar.”

“Was it hard growing up with so many boys and no other girls?”

Lexa cocked a half smile, shaking her head. “Honestly, not really. It was fun. I was always a big tomboy, so it kind of fit right in. Besides when I did want female companionship or to do something girlie, I had my mom and every single one of my aunts vying to spend time with me.”

Lexa couldn’t help but smile as memories of her aunts doting floated through her mind. “They were always there any time I needed advice about girl stuff, and if I was feeling out of sorts about being the “odd man out” so to speak, they would all show up at my parents place, and we’d end up having a girls night and watching movies. They were the best.”

As she listened to Lexa describe her family, Clarke couldn’t help but feel envious. Her own childhood was certainly a stark contrast to the one Lexa was describing.

“What about you?”

Clarke looked up, finally pulled form her thoughts. “What?”

“What about your family? Do you have siblings?”

“Oh, no. It’s pretty much always just been me and my mom.”

The reporter smiled, shrugging off the awkwardness of the conversation. She peered down at her notes again, finding where she’d left off. “So, this will be your first season in Savannah. Before making it here, how many other teams did you play with.”

Lexa puffed out her cheeks and rolled her eyes to the top of her head contemplatively. “Let’s see. Technically, this is my fourth promotion in the minors, but I also played in a Mexican winter league, so five I suppose.”

“Has that meant a lot of moving around?”

Clarke’s question was met with a dramatic eye roll form the pitcher. “You have no idea!” Lexa began rattling off the list of places she’d been. My first year was split between Tampa, Florida and Pulaski, Virginia. From there, I did half a season in Staten Island and moved to Charleston, South Carolina. After that it was Mexico City, and now here. I've actually moved more then most college draftees because I debuted so far down in the farm system.”

Clarke tilted her head to the side quizzically as she wrote down all of Lexa's moves. “Why is that?”

“Old fashioned coaches getting in the way of progressive management.” Lexa wiped sauce for the corner of her mouth, and pretend to look over the desert menu. Her slow progression through the farm system was one of her least favorite subjects, and one of the few that could elicit an extreme response from her. She could barely talk about it without loosing her temper.

“I was signed by the Yankees. Travis Vaughn, the General Manager, was really enthusiastic about pursuing me, but their Field Manager, Bert Tisi… He’s kind of a dinosaur.”

Lexa could feel the heat in her cheeks as she spoke and felt her temper rising. She flipped over the desert menu, eying the mixed drinks and allowing herself a moment to cool down.

“I’ve met with Vaughn when I was playing in Tampa, and he told me on the sly that Tisi’s not a fan of the idea of having a female player. From what I understand, he made sure I started as far down in the farm system as possible. Quality of life in the minors is pretty bad, and it gets worse the further down the pipeline you go. I think he assumed I’d get frustrated and quit.”

Clarke could tell that she’d touched on a sore spot for the pitcher. She watched as the brunette fiddled with the menu, realizing the subtext of everything Lexa had just said. Here was a young athlete who was talented and deserving, and there were really obstacles standing in her way, obstacles that had been put there intentionally.

“Could he prevent you from advancing to the next level?”

Lexa looked up from the menu, and smirked. “Not if I have anything to say about it. The next level up is Double-A. In terms of player potential, High-A to Double-A is the most significant jump you can make in the minor leagues. You don’t get there unless you have a real shot at the making it to the show. When I get there,” she paused, “and I will get there…”

Lexa leaned over, staring at Clarke with all the intensity of a freight train. “Then people are really going to see what I can do.”

“And after that, the All-Star game and the Cy Young award, right?”

Lexa rolled her eyes. “Please… I’ll just be happy to keep doing what I love.”

Clarke placed her pen down, crossing her arms over the table top. “How do you manage to be so sure of yourself without being arrogant?”

Lexa pursed her lips, considering the statement seriously for a moment. “I know I have the talent. I wasn’t always sure, but I’ve been in the minors for a little over two years and I’ve struck out guys that are playing in the major now. I’ve gone over my numbers again and again. I know I have what its takes, I just need people to notice me so I can make the next jump, and prove myself. So, I work hard. I come earlier, I train harder, and I stay later. I train on weekend. I spend holidays at training clinics. I don’t have an off season. All I do is train.”

“That sounds like it doesn’t leave much time for a personal life.” Clarke sipped her wine and shot the ballplayer a knowing look.

“I’ll admit, this is the first time I’ve been out in a while.”

“What’s a while?”

Lexa considered the question, mulling over the last time she’d shared dinner and drinks with a woman that wasn’t related to her. She wracked her brain, dredging up a few vague memories of a red-headed bartender in Tampa, and a thickly-accented sorority girl from Staten Island, who wore too much makeup, and had fake fingernails.

“About a year ago.”

Clarke didn’t respond immediately. She stared at Lexa pensively, before downing the last sip of her wine and leaning towards the brunette.

“Do you wanna get out of here?”

“What?”   
“Come on. I’m taking you out.”

“On a date?” Lexa held up her hand for the check, and handed the waitress a card as she walked by.

“It’s not a date.” Clarke rolled her eyes and offered a few bills to Lexa who waived them away. “But, I am forcing you to go out with me.”

“”Clarke, I have to be up early for training.”

“On a Saturday?”

Clarke knocked Lexa’s and out of the way as the check was returned, slipping a few bills in for a tip, and placing the billfold not the table.

“Lexa, it’s Friday night, and I am already in this dress. It would be a shame to waste it. Besides, I need to blow off steam from my terrible job, and you need a night out, so we’re going dancing.”

“Wait… What?”

Before Lexa knew what was happening Clarke had grabbed her hand and leading her out the door of the restaurant and hailing a cab.

______________________________________

It wasn’t the Lexa didn’t like dancing. Lexa loved dancing, and when she was alone, in the tiny apartment she shared with three of her teammates, she wasn't half bad at it. This was a club however, it was loud, and crowded, and held million sets of eyes that all felt fixed on her, waiting to judge. Her heart pounded in her chest as Clarke dragged her further into the sea of people, all swaying to the rhythm of some terrible electronic dance beat.

“Come on, there’s more space over there!”

Clarke flashed a smile as she looked back, pulling Lexa in a new direction. Clarke’s smile was hypnotizing, and though every thought in Lexa’s head protested what was about to happen, she allowed herself to be lead towards the small break in the crowd. The beat of the music changed as a new song started, and the blonde dropped Lexa’s wrist, grinning excitedly. She bounced up an down on her toes, the flush in her cheeks a tell-tale sign that the two rounds of shots they’d had upon arriving had done their job.

“I love this song!”

Clarke moved to the rhythm of the music, her arms raised slightly above her head, her hips rocking back and forth to the beat. When the chorus hit, she smiled from ear to ear, closing her eyes, and loosing herself completely in the music. Lexa watched the girl, mesmerized by the sway of her hips and the way her lips mouthed the lyrics, pressing together and pouting as they formed the words without making a sound. In that moment, in the dim lights of the club, Lexa swore she’d never seen anything more beautiful.

When Lexa felt Clarke’s grab her hand, her heart nearly stopped beating. Clarke pulled Lexa towards her, a mischievously look on her face as she yelling over the roar of the crowd.

“Dance with me!”

Lexa swallowed hard, making each step forward as slow as possible to buy time.

“Right here? In front of everyone?”

This elicited an eye roll. Impatient, Clarke tugged the reluctant girl forward, until only a few inches were left between them. She wrapped her hands around the back of Lexa’s neck, smirking triumphantly.

“Yes. Right here. In front of everyone.”

Lexa could feel the heat radiating off of Clarke’s skin as she took half step forward, placing a hand gently on the small of the reporter’s back. Clarke leaned in, pressing their body’s together ever so slightly, and Lexa heart began to race a million miles a minute. The warmth of Clarke’s breath against her neck sent electrical currents down her spine and made her skin tingle. The subtle smell of perfume and skin lotion drifted off the tiny blonde was intoxicating, and it overwhelmed Lexa’s senses. She was nervous, and dizzy, and entirely too aware that her palms were sweating, but somehow, Lexa managed to find Clarke’s rhythm and match it.

She fought back her nerves as she pulled Clarke’s closer, and wrapped her remaining hand around the girl’s waist, moving their body’s in time to the beat of the music. Their bodies were flush now, and Lexa was surprised by how natural it felt, and how well they seemed to fit together. One song began to blend into another until Lexa had lost track of time completely. She didn’t realize how long they’d been dancing like that until the lights in the club began to blink, announcing last call.

Clarke looked up at the brunette with a soft, contentedly smiled. We should probably get out of here now if we want to bet the rush.” She pushed a few strands of slightly sweaty hair away from her face, fanned face; flushed form the heat of the dance floor. “Do you want to grab a cup of coffee before we call it a night? My place is right around the corner, and there’s a food truck that usually parks nearby.”

Lexa just nodded, happy to do whatever Clarke suggested as long as it didn’t involve the night ending.

______________________________________

Twenty minutes later, coffees in hand, they made their way down quiet, tree lines streets that Clarke seemed to know by heart. Lexa stole glances at he blonde as she walked beside her in the cool darkness of the early morning. There was something much more relaxed and natural about this version of Clarke, hair disheveled, face flushed from drinks and dancing. She seemed so much more contented and carefree.

“You know Clarke, for someone who just moved here you seem to know your way around the city pretty well.”

“Mmh-hmm,” Clarke nodded and took a delicate ip of her coffee. “That’s because I used to spend my summers here. My father lived here in the off se… When he wasn’t working.”

Lexa’s eyebrow raised as she considers the statement. “He didn’t work year round?”

They strode to a stop in front of the stairs to an old, brick apartment building. Lexa took in the surroundings, forgetting her question as she realized that they had reached their destination.

“Clarke… Is this where you live?”

The Blonde nodded, sipping her coffee shyly, clearly a bit embarrassed.

Lexa smiled, a tiny bit jealous, but more impressed than anything. “That internship must be working out pretty well.”

Clarke rolled her eyes, blushing a bit, and biting her lip. “Actually, they overwork me and pay me next to nothing. I’m staying in my father’s old apartment.”

“He’s not using it?”

“Well, I mean it would be hard for him to. He died,” Clarke looked at her feet as she continued, “when I was twelve.”

Lexa was immediately sorry she asked the question, and floundered for an appropriate response. “Clarke, I’m so so…”

The reporter waved her hand, bringing her gaze back up to Lexa. “Stop. Please. You don’t have to do the whole ‘I’m sorry thing.’ It was a long time ago and I’m totally fine with it. Honestly, he and I weren’t that close. I really didn’t even see him that much the last few years before he died.”

For a few moments, a deafening silence lingered between the two girls. Clarke sat on the steps and continued to drink her coffee silently. Lexa finally took a seat next to the girl, and waited for her to continue, whenever she was ready.

“Anyway, he left the apartment to me. I was going to sell it when I graduated Columbia, maybe use the money to help me with my first few years working in NYC, but then the only job I got offered was down here. It ended up working out pretty well I suppose.”

Lexa nodded solemnly. “Is it ok if I ask why you weren’t close with your dad?”

Clarke shrugged, finishing her coffee and setting the cup down on the steps. “We were thick as thieves when I was younger, but you know… His work was his life and it took him all over. He traveled a lot; changed cities. I don’t think parenting was really his strong suit, but that’s ok. I had a great mom so… It is what it is.”

Clarke narrowed her eyebrows. “Hey Woods, I’m suppose to be interviewing you, not the other way around.”

Lexa put her arms up defensively. “Ok. Ok. A few more more questions and then we should probably call it a night.”

The blonde rested her head in her hands and considered the young pitcher sitting next to her thoughtfully. “What about your parents?”

Lexa smiled nostalgically, happy to talk about two of the people she missed most in the world. “Is this off the record or on?”  
Clarke yawned, brushing at the loose strands of hair that kept falling in her face. “Off.”

“Dad’s a master plumber who own’s his own company. Actually, he was almost a ballplayer himself. He was scouted in high school but he blew out his knee in training camp. That’s how he met my mother, she’s a nurse.”

“And your brothers, are they both hot shot athletes too?”

“Levi was great in high school. He probably could have gotten a scholarship if his grades had been just a little better, but he was never really interested in doing the college thing. He’s finishing up a journeyman program right now. He wants to take over the family business when our dad retires.”

“And what about Aden?”

“Oh man, he’s a total genius. He’s definitely the smart one out of all of us. He’s only a Sophomore, but he’s already taking AP classes. He’s also a big geek. He loves comic books and sci-fi and he’s an amazing musician. He’s a really great kid.”

Clarke laughed. “Didn’t get the athlete gene though?”

Lexa shrugged. “Well… Honestly, it would be hard to know. He’s been in a wheelchair since he was born.”

Clarke covered her mouth with her hand, afraid she’d deeply offended Lexa. “Oh my g… Lexa, I’m so sorr…”

Lexa held up her hand and shook her head, smiling at Clarke understandingly. “Hey, hey… Clarke, it’s ok. You had no idea.”

“How did…”

“Spina Bifida.”

Clarke nodded, unsure of what to say. “That must be really hard.”

“Actually, I think my family handles it really well. We’re sort of a glass is half full kind of family. The only big obstacle are the medical bills. My parents have pretty good insurance, but it adds up, even so. I try to send money home when I can, to help.”

“Is that one of the reasons you want to make it to the majors, so you can help take care of him?”

Lexa smiled, pushing a loose strand of hair behind Clarke’s ear without thinking. Realizing how intimate the gesture was she pulled her hand away a moment later, laughing nervously. “Not the biggest reason but it’s definitely a reason. Honestly though, with that big brain of his, I think one day Aden is probably going to be making more than any of us. I just want him to have whatever he needs until then.”

Clarke gazed at Lexa affectionately, her temple still tingling where the pitcher had just brushed her hair away. “You’re kind of a good guy-athlete cliche. You know that right?”

“Wait until I tell you where I grew up.”

Clarke leaned in, folding her forearms over her knees and waiting expectantly. “Do tell.”

“Cooperstown.”

Clarke bit her lips together, barely containing her laughter. “You’re telling me that the next big pitching phenom grew up in the birthplace of baseball?”

Lexa nodded smuggle.

“You know Lexa, you’re kind of too good to be true.”

Clarke rose from the steps, stretching her arms above her head. “I think it’s that time of night.”

Lexa pushed herself up, making her way down the steps and turning back at the bottom, staring at Clarke a just little to long. “I guess I should get going.”

Clarke descended to the last stair, hovering just above the pitcher, their bodied inches apart. “I had fun tonight. Thank you for coming dancing with me.”

Lexa grinned wickedly. “What’s a date for?”

Clarke leaned forward, closing the gap between them until her lips were lingering just in front of Lexa’s. The brunette’s heart began racing as she felt Clarke’s hand cup her cheek, and the scent of her perfume filled her nostrils. Lexa closed her eyes, waiting for the kiss, though it never came. Instead Clarke leaned in a little further, putting her lips to Lexa’s ear as she whispered, “It’s not a date.”

Finally Clarke pulled back, leaving the stunned girl at the bottom of the steps dumbstruck. “My article should come out in the Sunday edition. Will you read it?”

“I’ll be on the road. We have our season opener Sunday, in Myrtle Beach.”

“That’s ok. You can read it online.”

Lexa gave Clarke a loopy smile, still intoxicated from the perfume in her nostrils and the feeling of Clark’s hand on her cheek. “Yeah… Yeah, ok.”

Clarke leaned in, giving Lexa a quick, chaste kiss on the cheek. “Thanks again for a great night. Good luck on the road!” With that, the reporter was up the steps and through the apartment door, leaving the young pitcher in stunned silence, her hand pressed to the spot where Clarke’s lips had just ghosted over his skin.


	2. April

April

Clarke woke to the sound of her phone, vibrating angrily against the wood of the bedside table. Disoriented and half-asleep, she gazed at the tiny alarm clock next to her, wondering who would have the audacity to call at 3am. She grabbed the phone, staring at the unfamiliar number and fearing the worst as she swiped the screen.

“Hello?”

There was a dedicated pause, followed by the sound of low, soft chucking. A moment later Lexa’s voice filled her ear.

“Her unmistakable skill is coupled with a relentless work ethic, and while such remarkable talent could easily make the young phenom cocksure, she possesses an equally remarkable sense of humility.”

The corner of Clarke’s lip pressed agains the cool glass of the phone as she smiled, embarrassed to hear her own words read back to her.

“You read the article, I see.”

A lazy laugh on the other end of the phone betrayed the unmistakable effects of alcohol and exhaustion.

“I wanted to read it earlier, but the game went extra innings, and I got dragged out after for drinks.”

“How’d it go?”

Clarke listened to the sound of computer keys being tapped as she waited for Lexa to answer.

“We carried a 3 and 0 lead going into the eighth until our number two pitcher relived me and gave up a double and a two-run shot. Deadlock through the ninth and tenth innings, a go-ahead run in the 12th, and I came back in to close the last half-inning. I now have a 1–0 win–loss record for Class-A advanced ball.” As she spoke, Lexa blended her words together ever so slightly, having clearly enjoyed the post-game celebration.

“So you liked the article?”

“I loved it, although I don’t think my teammates will ever let me live it down.”

“Well, I should hope not. I did call you a phenom, after all.”

“You also called me charming.”

The reporter laughed, trying to remember what line Lexa was referring to. “Did I?”

“Affable and charming, the young pitcher possesses the kind of easy confidence that baseball legends are made of.”

“Ahh, so I did then.”

She listened to Lexa continue to tap keys, and giggle drunkenly.

“Your article doesn’t mention our date.”

“It wasn’t a date.”

“I meant the one we’re going on when I get back.”

Clarke rolled her eyes as she settled back into her bed, doing her best to fight off sleep.

“Very clever.”

“You mean very charming?”

The blonde stifled a yawn, and burried her face in the soft down of an oversized pillow.

“You’re the worst.”

“Go on a date with me?”

“You’re drunk.”

“You’re beautiful.”

Clarke sighed. “How about we trade? I’ll go on a date with you, in exchange for another interview, later in the season. The managing editor at the paper went nuts for the article. He wants me to do a follow-up piece.”

The reporter could almost feel Lexa’s smile through the phone, as she waited for the pitcher to reply to her terms.

“Done.”

“Really?”

“If it means a date with you, I’ll do a hundred interviews.”

“Slow down there, Woods. One more should be fine.”

“Ok, but don’t say I didn’t offer.”

Clarke’s eyelids sagged as sleep began to give in to her exhaustion. She rolled onto her side, realizing that if she didn’t get back to sleep soon, there would be no point in going back to sleep at all.

“I should go. There is an early morning staff meeting at the paper, and I need to be awake for at least 75% of it. Congratulations, again.”

Lexa giggled. “Thank you. I mean, it was an uphill battle, but I knew I’d get you to agree to a date eventually.”

“I meant on your win.”

“Oh right, that!”

Clarke half yawned, half laughed as she shook her head. She curled into herself, pulling the cover around her tighter.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming?”

“You’re about to loose that date.”

“No take backs!”

“Alright, but this time I get to pick the place.”

“Just tell me when and where, lady.”

“How about Friday, 502 East River Street, 5:30pm?”

“Prefect! We have an early game Friday. I have the night off.”

“Friday it is then. Anyway… Goodnight Lexa.”

“Goodnight Clarke.”

________________________________________________________________________________________

Clarke closed her eyes as as the phone finally went silent. A moment later she allowed sleep to overtake her, the faintest hint of a smile playing on her lips as she thought about Friday, and remembered the way Lexa looked when she was off the field.

Even for 5:25pm on a Friday night, River Street was busy. Lexa made her way down the bustling sidewalk, feeling underdressed in a t-shirt and jeans, boots, and her team jacket. The outfit seemed rather casual next to the well-dressed couples she passed, sitting outside bars and restaurants, enjoying the night air, but the day-game had gone extra innings, and she hadn’t had time to make it home home and change. Besides, she was running late, and if it came down to looking impressive or being punctual, Lexa was decidedly in favor of the later.

Jogging up to her destination, Lexa stoped, re-check the number she’d written down when she saw the building that matched the address. Lexa stared at the small, wooden food-shack in front of her, confused. Two menus were posted just below the ordering window, each one with “The Naked Dog,” written across the top in large letters. Just to the left, was a metal food cart covered in signs that advertised “Eisenberg Hot Dogs.” Lexa checked the address again, sure that she’d come to the wrong place, and worried that it was now 5:33pm.

“Darn it! You beat me again.”

The pitcher turned on her heels when she heard the reporter’s voice. Clarke stood behind her, looking radiant in a blue sundress and strappy heals, a chunky, leather tote bag slung casually over her shoulder.

“You dressed up again.”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “I came from work.”

“So you say.” Lexa smirked, giving her a small wink, before realizing that the blonde’s presence meant that the destination was indeed correct.

“So… You brought me to a hot dog stand?”

“I did.”

Lexa gazed back at the food shack, her smile faltering a little.

“Clarke… This isn’t exactly date food.”

Clarke gave her a smug smile, and nodded. “A fair assumption, but…”

She walked past Lexa cocking an eyebrow suggestively as she crossed towards the shack. “You only say that because you haven’t tried it yet.”

Forty minutes, and several hotdogs later, the pair laughed as they ambled down River Street together, passing the last of something called a “Slaw Dog” back and forth. Clarke tried not to choke on her food as Lexa moaned in pleasure.

“Ugh… This is so good! What is in this sauce?”

Clarke wiggled her eyebrows, giggling at the brunette. “Nobody know, that’s why they call it mystery sauce.”

“Well, whatever it is, it’s delicious.”

Clarke smiled triumphantly, crossing her arms over her chest. “See, I told you you’d feel differently about the place after you ate there.”

Lexa gave Clarke a playful but extremely gentle shove, sticking out the tip of her tongue for the briefest of moments. “Okay, okay…. You were right. But, I still say it’s an unorthodox choice for a date. What made you think of it anyway?”

The Blonde shoved the final bit of Slaw Dog in her mouth, chewing it greedily. A moment later she smiling bashfully, gazing over at her companion with guilty eyes. “Honestly? In the interest of full disclosure, I actually grab dinner there every Friday.”

The brunette furrowed her brow skeptically. “You eat hot dogs from a street-food stand every Friday?”

Clare shrugged, pausing long enough before she answered, that Lexa knew she was revealing something sacred.

“During my summers here as a kid, my father use to take me there every Friday night. We’d get hotdogs, and walk along the river, and he’d listen to me rattle on for hours about friends, and school, and life with my mother.”

Clarke looked out over the river, avoiding eye contact with Lexa as she continued.

“I don’t know why, but about a month after I moved down here I got this weird urge to see if that place was still around. One Friday after work, I came down here and there it was, exactly the same. One visit turned into two and… I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to keep the tradition alive.”

Lexa considered everything Clarke had told her, mulling the information over thoughtfully.

“You know… That’s a pretty longstanding tradition for someone who says they weren’t very close with their father.”

Clarke sighed, finally looking back at Lexa. “It’s complicated.”

A breeze picked up, causing Clarke to rubbed at her upper arms. Her shoulders trembled ever so slightly, and Lexa noticed the beginning of goosebumps forming on the blonde’s pale skin.

“Do you want my jacket?”

Clarke rolled her eyes, looking at the young pitcher skeptically. “No, I’m…”

The breeze picked up again, becoming a genuine wind and turning the evening air cold. Clarke’s teeth chattered and her shoulders tremble again. She looked at Lexa, bitting her lip, reluctant to admit her need after her initial attempt to refuse the offer. “On second thought… Would you mind?”

Lexa laughed at her companion, shaking her head in amusement. “Of course.” She shrugged the jacket off, letting it slide down her muscular arms before grasping it by the sides and holding it open for the tiny blonde.

The reporter gave Lexa a shy, half-smile, avoiding her eyes as she slipped her arms into the satin sleeves, and allowed the pitcher to slide the jacket over her shoulders gently. Though jacket was several sizes too big for Clarke, she enjoying the way Lexa’s body heat lingered in the soft fabric. Clarke wrapped the sides of the coat tightly around her small frame, inhaling the scents that the prior occupant had left, lingered on the collar; citrus, sandalwood, and a subtle hint of tanner’s oil from a baseball glove.

“Thank you.”

Lexa only nodded, fighting to hold back the smile that was forming as she took in the the sight of Clarke, swimming in her too big baseball jacket.

A comfortable silence settled over the two as they began making their way down River street again. The wind continued to pick up, hastening the clouds that had begun to roll in over the Savannah River. Soon, the cold had driven most people back inside restaurants and bars, and Lexa and Clarke were left to wandering the cobblestone street alone.

As they made their way down the sidewalk, Lexa stole occasional glances at Clarke, watching as the blonde burrowed even further into her jacket.

“That’s a good look for you.”

Clarke blushed, shooting Lexa a grin as she raised an eyebrow. “What? This old thing?”

The pitcher’s laughter was interrupted by the feeling of a hard, cold drop of rain water hitting her forehead. It slid, lazily, down the side of her nose coming to rest on the point of her upper lip. Lexa glanced up at the darkening sky, noticing how low the clouds were hanging now, and listening to the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance.

She sighed, trying to hide her disappointment as she smiled at the beautiful girl who was wrapped in her jacket.

“Looks like we’re about to get rained out.”

“So it does.” Clarke peered into the sky. A few raindrops landing on her cheeks as she frowned at the poorly timed weather. She wiped the rain form her face and looked back at Lexa, tilting her head towards a nearly Public House.

“Well, it’s still early, and I had a pretty long day at work. Any interest in grabbing drinks?”

Lexa rubbed the back of her neck nervously as she considered the offer.

“Honestly, there’s nothing in the world I’d like more right now, but…” She sighed, wagging an internal battle over her impulse to stretch out the evening as long as possible. Finally she gritted her teeth, and gave Clarke an apologetic look.

“Gosh, this is embarrassing but… Clarke, the thing is, money’s a little tight right now, and I know if I follow you into that bar, I’m pretty confident one drink will become as many as it takes to keep you there, talking to me. I think I’d better not, as much as I’d like to.”

Clarke nodded, her face softening in an understanding manner. She smiled, brushing a few more drops of rain from her face, and pushing a wet strand of hair behind her ear. “I understand. That’s ok though, I’ve got some beers at the house so… I suppose a night in, watching movies on the couch works too.” She looked over her shoulder, pointing in the direction of a side street.

“Anyway, my car is parked over there so…” She slid Lexa’s jacket off and handed it back to the lean brunette.

Lexa took the coat, tucking it under her arm as she moved in to give Clarke a parting hug. Before she had a chance though, Clarke leaned up, swiftly pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Thanks for the jacket Champ.” A second later Clarke had turned on her heels, and was hurrying back towards her vehicle. 

The rain started falling in earnest then, soaking the stunned young pitcher, flooding the street, and making tiny rivers of the cervices between the cobblestones. Halfway down the sidewalk, Clarke turned back towards Lexa, smirking out of the corner of her mouth and placing a hand on her hip.

“Well?”

Lexa cocked her head, unsure. “Well, what?”

Clarke smirked again, giving Lexa a wink. “Well… Are you coming or not?”

________________________________________________________________________________________

They stepped out of the car and made a made dash for the front door, helpless against the downpour as Clarke fumbled to find the right key. By the time they made it inside the brick apartment building, they were soak to the bone. They girls shivered as they made their way up the stairs, and down a short hallway to the door marked 2B,. Clarke paused, giving her companion a shy smile.

“My mother used to rent this place out, but she never really redecorated it. It’s still all of my father’s old furniture and stuff in there. You’ll have to excuse the place if it’s a little 1990’s bachelor pad.”

Lexa placed an arm on the blonde’s shoulder reassuringly, sure that the place couldn’t possibly be that bad. “Trust me Clarke, I’m sure it’s much nicer than my place.” She winked at Clarke, giving her a confident smile, though she secretly hoped she’d never have occasion to show the reporter where she lived.

“Ok, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Clarke sighed, turning the key in the lock and pushing.

The heavy wooden door swung slowly forward, creaking on it’s hinges. Lexa followed Clarke through the doorway, pausing behind the smaller woman as she felt along the hallway wall for the light switch. A second later there was a click, and when the apartment flooded with light, it immediately became apparent to Lexa what Clarke had meant about the decor.

“Wait here. I’ll go get us some dry clothes.” The blonde dashed through the living room and disappeared down the lone hallway, leaving Lexa to look around.

The whole place was exposed brick walls and cedar ceiling beams, with an atmosphere that practically screamed bachelordom. The main room had an open space concept and was divided into two tiers. The upper deck held the kitchen and a small eating area, and was divided from the rest of the room by a low wall with a fireplace in the center of it. Two leather armchairs sat in front of the fireplace, and behind that, along the side wall, a full bar, complete with counter-top, stools, wall mirrors, and neon lighting. Behind the armchairs, a large pool table sat in the center for the room, dividing the rest of it from the den area, which was a every bit the recreation room of a 1990’s single, adult male. The wraparound couch was a well worn chestnut leather, and the shelves against the far wall were brimming with DVD’s and old VHS tapes. In the middle of the large entertainment center sat a rather old fashioned looking, big-screen television.

What was most characteristic about the apartment however, what defined its essence, was that every square inch of it was steeped in baseball memorabilia. The place was a veritable shrine to the American pastime. The walls were decorated with old-timey photographs of the Polo Grounds and Shea Stadium, the shelves held plastic boxes with autographed baseballs, battle-worn leather gloves, and tattered baseball caps. Here and there, framed jerseys hung on the wall, all of them with the same number, 24. It took a moment, but Lexa finally realize the connection between the items.

“Clarke?” Lexa called down the hallway absentmindedly, still peering around at the multitudinous collection of memorabilia; items that surely constituted a lifetime’s worth of collecting. “Was your dad a big fan of Wild Man Wechadtowski?”

“What’s that?” Clarke suddenly reemerged from the hallway, making her way towards Lexa with a pile of clothing in her arms.”

“Jacob Wechadtowski? Baseball’s Wild Man? You know… Scruffy guy with huge sideburns and a big handlebar-mustache? Played for the Mets?” Lexa paused. “One of the greatest pitchers who ever lived? Died in a freak accident?” She paused again. “Any of this sound familiar?”

Lexa searched Clark’s face, though she was met with stoicism rather than recognition. “I was just saying your dad must have been a big fan to have collected all of this stuff.” Lexa gestured at the contents of the apartment.

“Yeah.” Clarke shrugged rolling her eyes as she surveyed the memorabilia. “Something like that.” She handed the stack of sweats to Lexa and giving her an apologetic smile.

“These were my ex’s. I hope you don’t mind.” She pointed to a bathroom of the entryway. “You can change in there. Towels are on the left if you need them.”

Lexa nodded, accepting the clothes gratefully, and slipping into the bathroom. Lexa stripped of the wet clothing that clung to her skin, sighing with relief as the cold items were peeled from her body. She grabbed a towel, and dried her sopping hair, squeezing as much of the rain out of her curls as possible, before dabbing her clammy skin. Finally, warmed and dry, Lexa slipped on the sweats Clarke had given her, examining them curiously. Clarke’s ex boyfriend had clearly been quite tall . Even on Lexa the pants seemed a bit baggy, as was the sweatshirt, which read “Cal Rugby” across the front.

Lexa collected her wet duds, exiting the bathroom and handing them to a waiting Clarke, who deposited them in the stackable washer by the front door.

Lexa cleared her throat as she watched Clarke shove her own wet clothes into the machine. “So… Your ex play rugby?”

Clarke nodded, looking over her shoulder at the pitcher, and throwing a few detergent pods into the washer. “Oh, yeah. Center, I think.”

“He must have been a big guy.”

Clarke closed the lid of the washing machine and gave Lexa a smug look. “She was. 5’ 11” to be exact.”

Lexa fought back the urge to do a victory dance at Clarke’s revelation, though Clarke seemed to pick up on Lexa’s excitement, none-the-less.

“Try not to look too pleased there, Champ.”

Lexa smirked. “That’s the second time you’ve called me that tonight. Should I consider it a term of endearment? I mean, it’s a little early for pet names but, if I had to pick one for you, I guess I’d go with Cookie.”

Clarke’s frown at the comment only egged Lexa on. “No? How about Honey? Sugar-Bear? Boo-boo?”

“You’re not even a little funny.”

“But admit it, I am a little charming.”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “I deeply regret using that particular adjective in my article. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Perhaps, that I was charming?” Lexa fought back smirk as she sassed the irritated girl in front of her.

Clarke shook her head, trying her best to look unamused. “Don’t push your luck, Woods.” She stuck her tongue out before she turned back to the washer, setting the dial. “How about you go make yourself comfortable infant of the TV, and I get us those beers?”

Lexa nodded, heading over to the couch, and depositing herself unceremoniously into its soft, enveloping cushions as she began scanning the shelves of the entertainment center for titles. A moment later Clarke plopped down beside her, handing her a brown, glass bottle.

“I hope an IPA is ok.”

Lexa nodded. “Perfect.” She happily accepted the beer from Clarke, taking a long swig, before setting it on her knee. “Any movie in particular you were thinking of?”

Clarke smiled mischievously, setting her beer on the table in front of them. “Well…” She crossed to the entertainment center, searching through the titles before pulling one from the shelves and flashing the case towards Lexa, smirking. “Field of Dreams?”

Lexa rolled her eyes, slightly irritated at Clarke’s assumption that she’d jump at the chance to watch a sports movie. “Ugh… I pitched nine innings just a few hour ago. I’m up for anything as long as it’s not a baseball movie.”

Clarke nodded. “Well, since you’re my guest, how about you choose?”

The pitcher took another swig of her beer, pushing herself off the couch as Clarke replaced her among the cushions. Lexa scanned the titles on the shelf carefully, contemplating each one, determined to find something that would be enjoyable, without making her seem predictable. Finally, her eye caught the perfect title. She pulled the DVD from the shelf, and made her way back to the couch, taking a seat, and handing Clarke the box.

The blonde looked at her skeptically, raising an eyebrow in semi shock. “Casablanca?”

Lexa gave her a triumphant smirk. “It’s a classic.”

“I know that. I’m just…”

“Just what?”

“I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

Lexa leaned in toward Clarke, narrowing her eyebrows and furrowing her brow in mock seriously. “You know Clarke, I’m more then just a great arm, and charming affability.”

“Ugh! That’s it!”

Clarke immediately pounced on Lexa, straddling her and knocking her back against the couch cushions. The blonde pinning the pitcher down as she began to assault her sides with tickling.”

“Stop! Quoting! My! Article! To! Me! You! Idiot!”

Lexa writhed in the cushions, her eyes screwed shut as she desperately tried to block the onslaught from Clark’s quick and dexterous fingers, which were sending her nervous system into a frenzy. Lexa was nothing if not severely susceptible to tickling. It had been her twin’s favorite method of torturing her when they were younger, though having Clarke straddling her waist, rather than Levi, seemed almost worth the torture. Lexa gasped for air in between hysterical fits of laughter. Somehow, she managed to grab ahold of Clarke’s forearms, stilling her attacks by pulling them out from under the tiny girl.

“Alright, Clarke! Alright! I give up!”

The tickling ceased, and Lexa breathed a sigh of relief as her nervous system returned to baseline. “No more quoting the article, I promise!”

She opened her eyes, her sense of relief disappearing as she realize how intimate of a position they were in. Forearms pinned to her sides, Clarke had toppled over, landing squarely on top of Lexa’s chest. Their bodies were nearly flush, pressed together in a way that made Lexa’s heart begin to race as she stare at the girl on top of her, panting for breath. Clarke’s flushed cheeks radiating an inviting warmth against Lexa’s own, and her golden hair hung haphazardly, endearingly disheveled from the rough housing. When Clarke licked her lips, Lexa’s brain went completely numb, and she drifted off into fantasies of Clarke’s lips pressed to her own.

“Lexa?” Clarke’s voice finally brought her back from the abyss.

“What?”

The brunette snapped back to reality, noticing the strange look Clarke was giving her.

“I said I’ll stop. You can let go now.”

“Oh, Sorry!” Lexa released her hold on Clarke’s wrists, letting them drop, unceremoniously, from her grasp.

Clarke grinned shyly, rolling off of Lexa and grabbing the DVD from the floor, where it had been absentmindedly discarded during the melee.

“You’re sure this is the one you want to watch?”

Lexa sat up, settling into the corner of the couch as she pushed her hair out of her face and gathering it behind her head. “Absolutely.” She popped a hair band off her wrist and secured the mess of frizzy curls in a loose bun atop her head. “Its my favorite.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow, giving Lexa a questioning smile. “Is Casablanca really your favorite movie?”

The pitcher nodded. “Ever since my Pop-Pop forced me watch it with him when I was eight.”

Clarke stared at Lexa, contemplating the character of the girl on her couch extremely seriously. Finally, she gave a low chucked, shaking her head. “‘Curiouser and curiouser…’”

When the DVD was finally queued up, Clarke flipped off the living room lights and returned to the couch. Lexa couldn’t help but notice the generous amount of space that Clarke seemed to leave between them, and worried that their earlier hijinks had turned the blonde girl off in some way. Not wanting to turn an otherwise comfortable situation awkward, Lexa tried to dismiss the thought, quietly sipping her beer as the opening titles flashed across the screen. 

It took several more beers, but by the time the patrons of Rick’s Cafe had begun to sing “La Marseillaise,” Lexa’s worries were put to rest. Clarke had begun inching closer to her, and somewhere around the flashback of the Germans invading France, she felt her reach over to pull an old throw blanket from off the back of the couch.

“You cold?”

Lexa smiled timidly, nodding as she sipped her third beer. “Just a bit.”

Clarke unfolded the blanket, tossing it over Lexa’s body, and sliding under herself a moment later. “You don’t mind do you? I’m freezing.”

Lexa attempted nonchalance as she looked down at the girl sliding closer to her. “Um… No, of course not.”

Lexa raised her arm, and allowed Clarke to slide under it, burrowing herself into the crook of the the pitcher’s shoulder as she snuggled between the blanket and the warm body next to her. A moment later Lexa lowered her arm, pausing before she wrapped it around the body next to her.

“This ok?”

Clarke didn’t answer. Instead, she gently curled her hand around the brunette’s wrist, pulling it arm until the pitcher’s arm was wrapped over her waist. Lexa reveled in the feeling of having Clarke cuddled against her. She tried not to smile too noticeably as she felt the smaller girl yawn, and curl into her just a bit more.

“Just wake me up if I fell asleep on you ok?”

“Sure thing,” Lexa smiled down at her, having no intention whatsoever of following through on the request.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Lexa woke to the sound of the score playing over the rolling end credits. Through half-lidded eyes, she peered down at the girl tucked into her side, fast asleep, still wrapped securely in her pitching arm. She squeezed the girl gently, running the pad of her thumb along her torso.

“Clarke?”

Clarke moaned, curling further into Lexa’s side, though she remained fast asleep. Lexa tried again, shaking her slightly.

“Clarke?”

This time there was no response at all. Loath to wake an exhausted girl, Lexa pulled the blanket back delicately, extricated herself from Clarke with surgical precision. Stooping down, she carefully slid her arms under shoulders and knees, lifting Clarke off the couch and groaning with the strain of the weight.

“You know for someone so tiny, you’re heavier than you look.” The statement was barely a whisper, though Lexa was thankful Clarke wasn’t awake to hear it.

Taking great care not to wake the girl in her arms, she made her way slowly down the hallway, toward the glowing light of Clark’s bedroom. She pushed the door open with her foot, making sure not to jostle Clarke as she maneuvered them through it and made her way to the bed, depositing the sleeping girl, very gently, in the center of the mattress. She lifting her head and slid a soft pillow underneath, pulling the comforter over her a second later.

Clarke moaned again, turning on her side and pulling the comforter in around her. Her eyes opened just a crack, as a barely conscious whisper escaped her lips.

“Leaving?”

Lexa crouched beside the bed, smoothing back the messy blonde hair that cascaded over the reporter’s face.

“Yeah. You’ve been drinking. I think I probably should.”

Barely awake, Clarke shook her head lazily, managing to get out three more words before curling up tighter, and drifting off again.

“Stay. Just sleep.”

Lexa sighed, fighting herself over what to do. On one hand, it was only an invitation stay and cuddle, nothing more. Then again, they’d finish a six pack between them, and she didn’t relish the idea of waking up to a Clarke who might regret the sleep over, or worse still, not remember it. She sighed, leaning in closer to Clarke and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea Clarke.”

Clarke was a barely visible nod, but a nod none the less. The blonde moaned again, turning over to face Lexa and mumbling into the comforter.

“Please… Stay.”

Lexa clenched her jaw, letting her better angels depart her, as she gave in to the blonde’s request, and the allure of the warm bed, and the inviting smell of cinnamon and soap that wafted off of Clarke.

“Ok, but just to sleep.”

Clark nodded again, and Lexa pulled back the covers, slipping underneath them and settling into the pillows. She made sure to leave a few inches between herself and Clarke, but despite her effort to maintain a respectful distance, Lexa felt Clarke roll into her a moment later. The reporter pressed her back into the Lexa’s chest, and grasped her wrist, pulling the pitchers toned arm around her shoulders.

“…’s cold.”

Lexa screwed her eyes shut for a moment, overcome with a mixture of incredible contentment and overwhelming nervousness. Her hear racing like a freight train, Lexa leaned down, pressing a chaste kiss to Clarke’s temple.

“Goodnight, Clarke.”

She stared down at for a few moments, happy just to watch the beautiful girl net to her sleeping. When she was confident that Clarke was completely out, Lexa pushed herself up slightly, reaching to turn out the light on the nightstand. Her fingers had just grasped the power cord when she noticed a small picture frame, sitting next to the lamp on the bedside table. A single glance at the frame’s contents, and Lexa’s whole body to froze, her eyes nearly popping out of her head as she realized what she was looking at.

The photograph was old, and its color dulling, but the figures in the picture were clear as day. A tiny blonde girl smiled up at the camera, through the candles of a birthday cake which proudly proclaimed that she was turning five. Even with frosting on her cheeks, and pigtails instead of neatly groomed trusses, the little girl was instantly recognizable as a young Clarke. What was shocking was the man who stood just behind her, beaming with pride. He held five year old Clarke up, his enormous hands wrapped around her waist protectively as she leaned forward, preparing to blow out her candles. The man was clad in an ringer t-shirt with “World’s Greatest Dad” printed across the chest, and he wore a party hat that had been comically tipped askew on his head. However, even in the ridiculous outfit, even without his jersey on, there was no doubt who the man was. There, trademark sideburns and handlebar mustache framing his giant smile, was Jacob “Wild Man” Wechadtowski, one of the greatest pitcher who ever lived.


	3. May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone,
> 
> For those of you who missed the various posts and responses about this, right after I announced that I was switching to Tumblr full time, several readers wrote to me raising concerns about accessibility. At the time, I was unaware of Tumblr's inability to accommodate those with additional/alternative visual needs. I was also unaware that several countries block Tumblr altogether. Out of respect for these concerns, I have decided to keep any already published work available on AO3. Stories will be updated here a day after they are updated on Tumblr, and will include a link to the comments section on my Tumblr site, for those who are capable of accessing it. Please note that I prefer to receive feedback there, though I will respond to notes on AO3 as well.

****

**May**

Lexa hadn't slept that first night in Clarke's apartment.  She'd stared into the quiet darkness, the only noise the sound of her heartbeat pounding in her ears.  Clarke was the daughter of Jacob "Wild Man," Wechadtowski.  The thought became an infinity loop, as Lexa stared at the sleeping girl curled up against her chest.

Long into the night, Lexa had wracked her brain for a way to broach the subject when morning came, bringing with it the incontrovertible realization that Clarke's secret was out.  "But why on earth was it a secret?" Lexa wondered.  A second date being what it was, keeping one's personal information precious was understandable.  On the other hand, choosing not to mention that one's father was a famous sports icons seemed a somewhat deliberate subject to avoid.  What was more, despite several opportunities she'd had to bring it up, Clarke had chosen to withhold; going so far as to play coy with Lexa.

In the wee hours of the morning, it had finally dawned on Lexa that Clarke's omission was nothing if not purposeful.  Thus far, everything she'd learned about the girl had proven her to be an intensely guarded person.  The reporter had apparently gone to some lengths to conceal her father's identity, and bearing that in mind, Lexa decided to put aside her many questions.  She would allow Clarke to bring the subject up organically, whenever she was ready.

To that end, Lexa had remained silent about what she'd seen.  When Clarke finally woke up, the pitcher pretended she'd been fast asleep all night, avoiding any glances toward the bedside table.  Luckily, even with the truth lingering like an itch, there had been plenty of other things to distract her that morning.

Much to Lexa's relief, Clarke had risen sans hangover, pleased to find the pitcher's arms were still wrapped protectively around her.  The blonde had been all sleepy smiles and roaming hands.  It was one of the best wake-ups Lexa had had in a while, and with Clarke's fingers ghosting over Lexa's shoulder bicep, the moment had felt almost perfect for a first kiss.  The brunette had leaned forward, determined not to waste her opportunity.

That was until Lexa's phone had exploded to life unapologetically, interrupting their almost moment with it's demanding alarm.  A second later, Lexa had flown out of bed frantically, realizing that she was in danger of missing a meeting with her field manager.  She'd hurriedly made her excuses, giving Clarke a sincerely apologetic look as she'd raced to gather her belongings.

"I had a good time last night."

"Me too."

"I'm so sorry about rushing out like this.  I swear this is not representative of my normal post-sleepover behavior."

Clarke had laughed, taking the situation in stride.  "And here I was beginning to think you were the cut and run type."

"No. I save that for the fifth date."

Lexa lingered in the bedroom doorway, overcome with the impulse to ask Clarke to attend the day's game.  As soon as she'd issued the invitation, the mood shifted.  Clarke had become distracted, excusing herself due to a weekend full of catching up on work.  They attempted to rain check, discussed schedules and time off with little success.  Clarke worked days, and Lexa had night games all week, followed by eight days on the road.

Clarke had stretched out in bed suggestively, adding an extra element of difficulty to Lexa's attempts at making a hasty exit.  "What about the week you get back? We could do first Friday fireworks on the river."

"Sounds perfect.  Text me!"

Leaning over to hug Clarke goodbye, Lexa had been rewarded instead with a sweet, soft kiss on the corner of her mouth.

"What was that for?"

"For being such gentleman last night… Gentlewoman, I mean."

"No thanks necessary," and with that and a wink, Lexa had been out the door.

* * *

By the beginning of May, the weather had finally started to turn, bringing with it the first sweltering days of the year. They passed slowly, heralding the scorching summer that was just around the corner.

More than two weeks had passed since she'd last seen Clarke, and the more Lexa thought about it, the less she knew what to make of the photograph on Clarke's nightstand.  Part of her was sure that the reporter had meant for her to see it, though, on the other hand, she rationalized that Clarke had been half asleep, mostly drunk, and had probably forgotten it was there.

Even so, Clarke must have realized by now, and surely she'd be wondering if Lexa had, indeed, noticed it.  And, if that was the case, why had she not mentioned it during any of their phone calls while Lexa was on the road?  Was it a test?  Was she waiting to make sure that Lexa was honest enough to come clean about what she'd seen?  Then again, perhaps Clarke was too shy, or too private to broach the subject.  The many possibilities made the pitcher's head spin.

To make matters worse, Lexa genuinely disliked withholding information, primarily when it was from someone who had just begun to trust her.  It had kicked her supremely guilty conscience into overdrive, making her feel like an overinflated water balloon, fragile and ready to burst at the slightest provocation.  By the first Friday of the month, she'd decided she could no longer keep the matter a secret, unwillingly.  Lexa was determined to come clean to Clarke about what she knew; consequences be damned. But, before she had a chance, fate intervened on her behalf.

It began as a brief article in USA Today; a few short paragraphs tucked away in the middle of the sports section.  The Mets had called up a pitcher from their farm system, a young Venezuelan with a dirty, breaking curveball that was purported to be nearly unhittable.  He was handsome, talented and flashy, but what drew people's attention the most was his age.  At 20, he was the youngest pitcher to start for the Mets since the Wild Man.  People had been bound to liken the two to one another.  It wasn't long before sports commentators were dissecting the men's similarities ad nauseum, reviving the long-dead ghost of Jacob Wechadtowski, pulling his specter from the grave, and plastering televisions and newspapers with his visage.

In the years since his strange and untimely death, Wechadtowski's name had faded from the spotlight.  His the more infamous elements of his career, including his frequently raucous off-field antics, had been forgotten over time, leaving behind only the legend of his numerous records.  In a week, however, all of that changed, and suddenly he was everywhere again, both a reminder of athletic greatness and a cautionary tale regarding wealth and fame achieved at a young age.

In the middle of the frenzy, a detail emerged that provided an additionally stark, almost eerie contrast between the two men.  Bartolo Montillo, the Mets' new star pitcher, was revealed to have fathered a child during his time in the Mets' farm system.  His progeny had been kept a secret, due in part to Montillo repeatedly failed to meet his mandated financial obligations.  

The young player's defenders argued that, during his tenure in the minor leagues, Montillo had made barely enough to pay his club fees and feed himself, much less support a child.  Supporters were quick to point out that, what little money he had saved had been sent to his mother and siblings in Venezuela.

Still, Montillo's detractors would have their say too, and they were quick to bring up the paramount responsibilities that were inherent to parenthood, willingly come by or not.  These individuals frequently brought up the legality of Montillo's relationship with the child's mother, though he was, in fact, younger than her by her several months.  Critics painted an especially hyperbolic picture of the poor example set by the pitcher, bemoaning how frequently professional athletes fathered illegitimate children who failed to support them.

And, of course, the story had immediately sparked comparisons to Wechadtowski, who had been hounded by rumors of lackluster fatherhood throughout his career.  By that Friday, the media storm had culminated in a New York Times article regarding the similarities between the two men.  Its characterization of the Wild Man was, to say the least, deeply unflattering.

_"Wechadtowski's incredible talent, as well his colorful, on-field antics, made him a favorite among fans.  In spite of his success, however, the Wild Man seemed unable to find balance or control.  At his best, he was nearly untouchable, but at his worst he was confrontational and reckless, arguing with referees, and employing inside pitching to a degree that many considered negligent, even dangerous.  Off the field, Wechadtowski was equally unpredictable, his hard-partying lifestyle frequently landing him in the tabloids and resulting in multiple game suspensions._

_Towards the end of his career, the pitcher's behavior became even more erratic.  Unprecedented winning streaks were punctuated by periods of remarkable inconsistency, during which Wechadtowski would throw wild balls, start on-field fights, and insult officials.  He also fell into legal trouble, incurring several disorderly conduct charges, and injuring his pitching arm in a drunken car wreck that would ultimately cut his playing days short._

_What was perhaps most troubling, however, were the rumors that Wechadtowski was an absentee parent, maintaining little if any no contact with the child he fathered at eighteen.  Wechadtowski barely mentioned the relationship during his career, the famously cagey pitcher remaining tight-lipped when it came to the subject, insisting that he preferred to keep family matters a private affair.  The following is the only known photograph of Wechadtowski with his daughter, Clarke Griffin, raised in Atlanta, by her mother and grandparents.”_

The picture that accompanied the article showed a young, burly Wechadtowski, on the field after a decisive win, his hand held high to the crowd, and a small blond toddler clutched in one of his arms.  Lexa had seen the photograph before, in the glossy pages of Mets: The Complete Photographic History.  The book that had graced her family's coffee table growing up, Its pages worn and fingerprinted from countless rereading and referencing, as though it were a family Bible.  Lexa had always liked the picture, imagining the little girl lucky to have such a famous, talented father.  But with her childhood hero's dirty laundry airing for all the world to see, Lexa now saw the picture in a new light.  The sweaty young man in the photograph looked overwhelmed, anxious even.  He clutched the little girl in his arm awkwardly, as though he might break her, as though it was the first time he'd held her at all.  The tiny blonde child had her face turned away, frightened by the crowd, terrified by the strange man holding her.

Lexa sat on a bench along the riverway, staring at the photograph and she balanced the newspaper on her legs.  When she'd seen the New York Times article that morning, she'd been sure that she'd be receiving a call from Clarke canceling their plans.  After all, what girl would want to go out after having the ghost of her absentee father dragged through the mud all week.  When Clarke had texted, around noon, Lexa had been sure the message would be a polite request to raincheck.  She was shocked when, instead, it had turned out to be a note confirming their plans for the evening.  


* * *

Clarke snatched the remote off the counter, thrusting her hand aggressively toward the television, where impassioned sports personalities were hotly debating what was quickly becoming the bane of her day.  One especially red-faced man gesticulated wildly at another, practically yelling his comments across the semi-circular desk they sat behind.

"The man was a legend, pure and simple!  How he behaved in his personal life, and what kind of parent he was is beside the point."

Clarke groaned, pointing the remote at the screen and hammering the off button as hard as she could.  She pinched the bridge of her nose in annoyance.  For the most part, she'd been able to avoid the media storm the had rolled in over the past of the week.  Sports shows could be ignored, as could the television news, and radio programs. It was a kind of storm she'd weathered before, and given the new city and her relative unimportance in it, she'd managed to remain comfortably anonymous, for once.  That was until the morning's Times' article had mentioned her by name.

Growing up with a father whose face was frequently fixed to front pages, Clarke was indeed no stranger to public scrutiny.  The unwanted attention had been her constant companion during childhood, acting as a proxy in Jacob's absence.  In the years since his death, and with her decision to attend college in California, Clarke had finally begun to enjoy a degree of anonymity.  It was something she'd longed for in her more formidable years, and by the time she'd moved back to Georgia for work, she was able to blend in, flying blissfully under the radar.  Jacob was gone, her name was her own, and the people she surrounded herself with didn't follow baseball.  In Savanah, people barely even noticed her, and Clarke reveled in the feeling of being a "nobody," rather than someone famous's poorly kept secret.

But, when Clarke arrived at work that morning, the office had been buzzing with excited chatter and whispered conversations, all of which had stopped the moment she entered.  The reporter was no stranger to the feeling of walking into a room, only to realize that everyone had just been talking about her, and it didn't take long to understand what all of the spare copies of The New York Times littering the office meant.

She'd spent her lunch break locked in a supply closet, pouring over the damning article, forcing back tears of indignation at the article's callous inclusion of her private information, which was more than enough to blow her cover.  Clarke's inner sense of justice raged at the nerve of the Times reporter, though she knew well that it was within his legal right to write what he had. The remainder of her day had been a have of fielding questions from overzealous co-workers, and trying to ignore people's lingering, obtrusive looks.

Clarke shook her head, clearing her mind of the fog of the terrible day.  She shifted uncomfortably, checking her reflection in the hallway mirror and eyeing her worn-out jeans and the soft, old raglan.  Her appearance wasn't impressive, it wasn't sexy, but it was honest, and as much as the blonde pined for the mischievous smirks that her dresses elicited from Lexa, tonight seemed like the wrong time for that kind of effort.  Clarke took a deep breath, hoping that the pitcher would enjoy her in faded cotton and flats as much as she did in sundresses and heels.  A moment later she caught herself, wondering why she was worrying in the first place.

"Stop that," she scolded her reflection.  "It isn't even a date," she thought.  "Not really."  Her conscience strained against the thought, knowing its relative falsehood, though it had become a mantra of late.  She found herself repeated it over and over on her walk toward River Street.  "Not a date."  "Not a date."

Date or not, she had bigger things to worry about that evening.  The week's media storm was sure to have caught Lexa's attention, and with a newspaper article exposing her name, Clarke was going to have to address the issue, whether or not the pitcher had put two and two together by now.  Clarke thought back to the last time she'd seen Lexa, nervously wondering if she'd managed to notice the old photograph in the bedroom.

She turned the corner onto River Street, making her way through the crowd until she spotted an old bench with a single occupant.  Lexa was leaning casually against the old wood of the backrest, cradling a newspaper in her lap.  Clarke's heart sank as she realized what the pitcher was reading.

Clarke was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to run.  Whether it was to the brunette's arms seeking comfort from the awful week, or away from the awkward conversation that was waiting for her, she wasn't sure. But in either case, her feet compelled her to move in one direction or the other, and fast.  She had begun to favor the later, when Lexa finally looked up, folding the paper and setting it down with a shy smile.  Clarke approached Lexa slowly, half looking at her, half glancing at the sidewalk.  "Hey, you."

Lexa smiled the kind of smile that was all restraint and propriety, unsure of what the appropriate reaction was.  She grabbed the paper and set it aside, patting the bench for Clarke to sit down.

"Hey."

"Welcome home."  Clarke sat down, giving the brunette a quick but sincere hug.  She tried not to notice the warmth that radiated off of Lexa's sun-kissed skin or the way the pad of the pitcher's thumb felt as it gently stroked her arm.  Clarke pulled away, barely able to make eye contact with the tanned pitcher.  The girl kicked the ground anxiously as she tried to remember the speech she had prepared.  Suddenly her pulse was racing.  She felt the way she had coming home with a C on her middle school report card, all shame and nerves and poorly articulated excuses.  Her words began to flee her as panic took hold.  

"So…"

Lexa bounced a knee up and down anxiously, feeling as though she were seven years old again, waiting for to be punished for breaking a window or tipping over a vase by accident.  The overinflated balloon that was her conscience had stretched to its limit, and Lexa finally burst, mumbling through a rushed apology before Clarke had a chance to speak.

"Clarke I know about your dad."

Clarke screwed her eyes shut, frustrated with her inability to confront the topic.

"I take it that means you read the article."

"No.  I mean, yes, but I knew before.  I saw the picture on your bedside table the night I stayed over. I'm sorry.  I should have said something sooner."

Clarke nodded slowly.  "Why didn't you?"

Far too flustered to articulate the hundreds of internal conversations she'd had regarding that very question, Lexa merely shrugged.  "Because I wanted to see you again.  You knew I was a fan of your father, and I was worried that if I admitted it, you'd think my wanting to spend time with you was some kink."

"Is it?"

"Of course not!"

Lexa leaned back again, staring out across the water before turning back to the reporter.  "Clarke, why didn't you say anything?"

Clarke's brow knit, her forehead creasing as she picked the bridge of her nose.  "It's hard to explain."  She considered the brunette for a moment, looking down at her feet as she continued to kick loose pebbles around with a toe.

"Did I ever tell you that I had five different boys ask me to my high school prom?"

The pitcher cocked her head, taken aback by the seemingly tangential statement.  "How is that…

"All within a day of each other, no less."  Clarke continued, unswayed by Lexa's confusion.  "I was surprised by it because honestly, I wasn't popular.  I mean, I wasn't unpopular.  I suppose I had popular friends, but for the most part, I wasn't that social.  I was too busy studying, or participating in student government, or doing model U.N to notice anything else."

Clarke ran a hand through her hair, glancing over at Lexa with a melancholy smirk.  "It's a little cliche, but I was pretty excited at the idea that five different people could have been harboring secret crushes on me."

"But they hadn't?"

Clarke shook her head.  "The next day, my best friend Octavia found out from her boyfriend that those guys all had a bet going about who could get Wild Man Wechadtowski's daughter into bed.  I suppose I should have known; they were all on the baseball team.  Stupid me."

Lexa frowned.  "Clarke, don't say that. What those guys did was awful."

Clarke sighed, "No, it was predictable.  Lexa, stuff like that defined my whole childhood.  Jacob Wechadtowski's shadow followed my mother and me around everywhere we went.  If he had a big game, everyone at school would ask me for an autograph.  If he got into trouble, reporters would come knocking on my mother's door for a comment.  If he showed up to see me, there'd be a news van camped across the street the whole time."

Lexa recoiled at the thought of the many intrusions Clarke had suffered because of her famous father.  It made her regret ever feeling jealous of the little girl in the glossy photo of the Mets' history book.  She studied Clarke's face, wondering how much more there was to her story.

"All that horrible stuff about him being an absentee parent, was that true?"

"It's not wrong," Clarke admitted, "but there is a lot more to the story than that."

"Would you tell me?"  Lexa looked at her hopefully, not wanting to press the issue if Clarke wasn't ready to open up.

Clarke looked around nervously, surveilling the people on the sidewalk.  She didn't want to seem paranoid, but after the events of the week, the conversation wasn't one she felt comfortable having out in the open.  "Look, I know we said we'd do the fireworks tonight, but if this is something you want to hear, I'd feel better telling it to you in private.  Would you settle for beers at my place?"

The pitcher stood, smiling as she took Clarke's hand to help her off the bench.  "I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

Lexa perched on a tall stool along the kitchen island, the rigid uprightness of her back betraying her nerves as she watched Clarke lean into the depths of the refrigerator and retrieve two beers.  The blonde reached reflexively towards a wall mounted opener, popping the caps off with a practiced fluidity.  She slid one of the long-necks across the granite countertop to her companion, before leaning against the other side of the island, pawing at the glass of her bottle.

"So," she paused, staring at her hands absentmindedly.  "What do you want to know?"

Lexa rotated the bottle of beer, focusing on the sound the tiny glass ridges along its base made as they scraped the stone counter.

"Well, I gave you my origin story.  I think it's only fair you share yours."

"It's long."

"I've got time."

"You might not like what you hear."

"Try me."

Clarke studied Lexa's face, analyzing it for any sign of insincerity.  Her jaw clenched as she pulled in a slow breath, her mind made up.

"Lexa, look… You have to understand that what we're talking about is privileged information shared by less than a handful of people.  If I tell you this stuff, I have to know that you won't repeat it.  Not to anyone. Not ever."  Clarke stared hard at the pitcher, studying her face for signs understanding.

Lexa ran a hand through her hair, exhaling a breath that she felt as though she'd been holding forever.  "Clarke, I don't know what happened between you and your father, but I do know what it's like to have things about you, about your life that you don't want people to know.  No matter what you tell me, I won't repeat it.  You have my word."

Clarke sighed, crossing her arms.  "Alright, I trust you."

She took a long sip of her beer, hoping a little liquid courage would assuage her nerves.  "The first thing you need to know is that my mother wasn't some random woman or a short-term girlfriend."

Clarke frowned, tapping the folded copy of the Times that was now laying on the counter between them.

"Articles like this one always seems to be insinuating that, but it's not the case at all."

"They were high school sweethearts who had known each other since they were children.  Mom grew up in Madison Georgia, and my dad was from Rutledge, the next town over.  That part of the story, at least, is sweet."

Lexa watched Clarke's face shifted, her mind lost in what she was saying.

"Jacob had a rough start in life.  His father was in prison by the time he was born, and his mother died of cancer when he was young.  His uncle Royal raised him, a guy who was a green beret in Vietnam, but never worked a steady job after that.  Roy was a bit of a wild man.  He hunted and fished, he drank steadily, the whole middle of the woods, bushmaster thing, and he raised Jacob the same way.  He also wasn't much for rules and didn't care about school, so Jacob ended up skipping whenever he liked.  Uncle Roy did teach Jacob how to play baseball and pitch, though."

Clarke smirked, thinking back to the single time she'd met her great-uncle, on a trip to Rutledge with Jacob.  Royal had been heavily tattooed and had smelled of stale Marlboro Reds and cheap beer, but he'd made her laugh, and used slight of hand to pull candy bars from her ears, so she had liked him all the same.

"The older Jake got, the more out of control his behavior became."

Clarke paused, suddenly pensive.  "My mother has always described him as emotionally labile.  He'd be on top of the world one day and moody and irritable the next.  He was in trouble a lot, mostly for drinking and causing trouble with his friend, but the police let most of it slide because he was a such a standout athlete.  By the time he was a sophomore in high school talent scouts were showing up to his games."

Lexa rubbed the back of her neck, considering the characterization Clarke was providing, noting how the blonde always called her father by his first name.

"Did he treat your mother well?"

"Yes. My mom has always insisted that Jake was incredibly thoughtful, really sweet and gentle.  In some ways, I think the relationship meant more to him than it did to her."

Clarke took another sip of her beer.  "Which is not to say my mother didn't love him.  She did a great deal.  For Jake, though, my mom and baseball were his whole world.  Unfortunately, my mom's father hated him, partly because he was a problem child from a troubled family, but mostly because he didn't trust Jake with his daughter."

Lexa bobbed her head, secretly thinking that Clarke's grandfather's concerns had been reasonable.

"My grandfather was a doctor, and he wanted my mom to follow in his footsteps.  Just before my mother's senior year of high school, he was offered a job teaching at Emory's medical school.  My mom was supposed to matriculate there in the fall, but by that time Jacob was being scouted by major league teams.  My grandfather was afraid that if mom stayed with him, she'd end up dropping out of school, getting married young and ruining her life. Relocating the family to Atlanta mean putting fifty miles of distance between them, so he leaped at the opportunity."

"Since you're standing here, telling me this story, I take it the distance didn't stop your parents from seeing one another."

Clarke shook her head, smiling.  "If anything it only encouraged them.  Jake would drive up to see her whenever he got a chance, and my mother would sneak back to Rutledge on weekends.  She'd pretend she was staying with friends when she was camped out at Uncle Roy's house with Jake."

"I'm assuming that's how you got here."

Clarke pressed her right index finger to her nose.  "Correct.  As soon as she told him that she was pregnant, Jacob went straight to my grandfather, and insisted that he wanted to marry my mom."

"Your grandfather must have been thrilled about that."

Clarke rolled her eyes, recounting the many times her mother had told her the story.  "He was mortified.  He threatened to disown my mom if she went through with it."

Clarke finished the last sip of her beer and tossed the bottle into a bin under the counter.  She opened the fridge and grabbed two more, sliding one over to Lexa.  

"Grandpa was old-fashioned, very prim and proper, relatively conservative. The idea of abortion was off the table, but he was convinced that he'd lose face with colleagues if people found out his unmarried, teenage daughter had gotten pregnant. When my parents graduated high school that May, he made her defer her admission to Emory, and sent her sent her to live with his sister, in Boston, for the rest of the pregnancy. That's where I was born, by the way."

She smirked. "Go, Sox."

Clarke winked at Lexa, eliciting a grimace from the native New Yorker.

"Ugh!  And here I was starting to like you, Griffin."

Clarke stuck out her tongue playfully.  She walked around the counter, taking a seat next to the brunette.

"Where was your father in all of this?"

"Stuck in Rutledge.  As soon as he was declared eligible for the draft, he went to my grandfather to try and convince him of his good intentions."

Clark drummed her fingers on the granite counter, blowing out a steady breath.  "My grandfather was an intelligent guy.  He realized that if he refused to support my parents outright, it would only make them more determined to be together, so instead, he got in my father's head about his draft prospect.  Grandpa pointed out that if Jake let the world know he had a baby on the way, it might sour scouts on him."

Lexa shrugged.  "Why would that have mattered?"

"Maybe. My mother hadn't turned eighteen yet, and that brought legal issues into questions.  My grandpa warned him that if major league scouts found out, the potential negative press could scare them away, and he might end up getting drafted low, or not at all.  He also pointed out that teams were less likely to offer him a substantial bonus if they knew my father had gotten his girlfriend knocked up and was desperate for money.  Anyway, what he said struck a nerve.  The next time Jacob spoke to my mother, he told that they should wait until after he'd been signed to make any big decisions."

"What happened next?"

"In June, Jacob was drafted.  The Mets selected him in the first round and sent him to Kingsport for Rookie ball.  He played well, and halfway through the season, he got bumped up to short-season A ball, in Pittsfield Massachusetts."

"Did he get to see your mother?"

"Not exactly.  Pittsfield is on the other side of the state, about two and a half hour away from Boston.  Plus, you know how schedules are at that level.  There are games every day and lots of traveling.  He was only able to visit my mother a few times during the season, but he swore to her he'd be there when I was born."

"Was he?"

Clarke shook her head.  "Their season was supposed to end in early late August, but because of weather, it ended up running long.  Then his team made the playoffs.  My mother was due at the end of September, so on the sly, Jake explained his situation to his field manager, who agreed to let him slip away when my mother went into labor.  But, on the day that call came, he was pitching the final game of the league's championship series."

Lexa's eyes went wide as she blew out a breath, her cheeks puffing.  "Wow."

"Wow, Indeed.  My mother's aunt called during the seventh inning to let Jacob know what was happening, and he swore he would leave as soon as he could."

"But?"  Lexa looked at Clarke incredulously.

"But, the game went extra innings, and there was a coach from the Florida State League there evaluating him.  He ended up closing out the game with a win."

"And then he left?"

"Yes, but not before having a few celebratory beers in the locker room with his teammates."

"Oh."

"Yeah.  Jake took the backroads to avoid getting caught, but somewhere around Belchertown he fell asleep at the wheel."

"Was he ok?"

Clarke shrugged.  "He got lucky. It was late, and there wasn't anyone else out.  His foot slipped off the pedal, and he rolled into a shallow ditch on the side of the road.  A cop woke him up just before dawn, and he ended up getting to Boston a few hours after I was born."

"Your mother must have been furious."

"She was.  It was the first time Jake been genuinely unreliable when it came to their relationship, and the fact that it had all been due to alcohol and the game wasn't irrelevant to her.  Jake promised that he'd never do anything like it again, but I think the whole thing rattled my mom.  After that, it was easier for my grandfather to get in her head about things.  He encouraged her to think about what her future might look like if things didn't work out for Jake, and offered to let her move home.  A month later we were back in Atlanta, living with my grandparents."

"Jake spent fall and winter for that year working construction back in Georgia. He was getting bumped up to Advanced-A the following season, and he wanted my mother and me to come with him.  Initially, my mom agreed, but then my grandparents offered to support her and hire a nanny for me so she could honor her spot at Emory.  Mom knew if she didn't go back to school she might never finish, so she decided to stay."

"How did Jake take that?"

"Not well, but he finally agreed that it was for the best, at least until his career prospects were more secure. The next season, Jake started to get some media attention.  There was talk about him making the jump straight to the Majors, but he ended up getting into a fight during a game.  The Mets front office decided that Jake needed more time to mature, so they sent him to the Double-A affiliate in Williamsport for their postseason, then to the Arizona Fall League.  He was gone for the next eight months, and when he came back, I was walking and talking, and my mother was in school full time."

"That must have been a strange adjustment."

Clarke leaned over the counter, crossing her arms and closing one eye as she considered the statement.  "I was too young to remember any of it, but I think it was for my parents.  My mother said that when he came back from Arizona, Jake was different.  He was moodier, easily irritated, a little possessive.  He was frustrated that she was studying so much, and he'd get jealous when she spent time with friends from school.  It didn't help that my grandfather made it impossible for Jake to see me when my mother wasn't around.  Still, Jake was determined for us to be a family."

Clarke stopped abruptly, walking over to the stove as though she'd just remembered that a lit burner.  Two canisters full of cooking utensils sat on the counter to the right, and these she pulled aside, fishing a small, frame out from between them.  She resumed her seat next to Lexa, pushing it towards her.

Lexa accepted the offering with great care, handling it as though it were a rare collector's item.  She peered down, examining the images inside thoughtfully.  A figure lay motionless on a floral print couch, asleep with his mouth hanging wide open,  He looked more boy than man, despite his strong arms and rough stubble.  A tiny toddler was sprawled, belly down, across his chest, dead to the world as well.  Clarke leaned over, peering down.

"When Jake got home from Arizona, I was teething and waking my mom up every few hours during the night.  Jake was having trouble sleeping anyway, because of the time difference, so he volunteered to stay up with me when I was fussy."

Lexa studied the scene a moment longer.  "So he was trying?"

Clarke ran a finger slowly over the glass of the frame.  "He was."  She turned the frame over, placing it face down on the counter.

"Jake was gone again in February.  He'd been invited to the Mets spring training in Port St. Lucie, and it seemed likely that he'd be called up sooner rather than later.  Still, with no guarantees that he'd be in one place for more than a few months, he and my mother started arguing about long-term plans.  In the end, they agreed that she and I would stay in Atlanta until he was called up to the majors."

"That spring, Jake was added to the 40 man roster and sent to Norfolk, Virginia to play Triple A. He got the call in the middle of June, and a few weeks into July he was headed to New York City to make his Major League debut."

"Youngest Mets starting pitcher since Dwight Gooden."

"Ok, so you're a fan."

Lexa blushed, biting her lip.  "Sorry."

Clarke rolled her eyes, poking Lexa in the ribs playfully to ease the awkward tension.  "Anyway, I'll spare you the professional details since you already seem to know them.  Jake did well, but he hated the city.  He was a country boy, and New York was too big, too noisy, too full of people for him.  He missed my mother and begged her to visit him.  When the Mets made the postseason, she and I flew up to visit.  That's when this photograph was taken."

Clarke unfolded the paper, pointing to the picture that was attached to the article.  "Jake wanted to try and go public with details about my mom and me.  He convinced her to let him carry me onto the field after a particularly big game.  I hadn't been around Jake enough to get used to him, and by then he'd started growing that ridiculous mustache and those massive sideburns.  I didn't recognize him at all, and when my mother handed me off, I got hysterical."

Clarke looked down at the newsprint. "There were a bunch of photos taken of us that day, but that was the only one where I didn't look like I was being kidnapped."

It was a funny joke, so Lexa laughed, but the sad reality of where Clarke's story riverway was becoming evident.  The blonde folded the paper closed again and sighed.

"His plan backfired.  We were barely a side note in articles, and seeing my picture in the newspaper made my mother nervous.  It freaked her out even more that every time she and Jake were out together, photographers would follow them.  She felt like they didn't have any privacy, and she was worried that he'd gotten too into partying and staying out all night.  Even so, she agreed that if the Mets offered him a Major League contract at the end of the season, she and I would move up permanently to be with him."

"So why didn't you?"

"A week after we left Jake and some other players were photographed drunk at a strip club.  She and Jake started fighting after that, but my mother was still planning to keep her word.  When the postseason ended, the Mets signed my father to a new contract with a no-trade clause.  Mother agreed to move up at the end of the school year, but a few months later the thing with the woman in New Jersey happened.

"What thing?"

"Some woman in Atlantic City claimed to be pregnant with Jacob's baby. Suddenly, that photograph," she tapped the paper again" was everywhere.  People wanted to know who I was, and whether or not Jake was some lothario, leaving a slew of illegitimate children in his wake.  It didn't help that reporters found out that my mother had been seventeen when Jake had gotten her pregnant.  They had a field day with that one."

Unsure what to say, Lexa took a long swig of beer.  She glanced at Clarke nervously, unwilling to ask the uncomfortable question that was lingering on the tip of her tongue.

Clarke seemed to realize what Lexa was thinking.  "It turned out not to be true about the woman in Jersey, but the fact that it had happened convinced my mother that Jake had probably been unfaithful.  He swore up and down that he hadn't slept with her, and that the whole thing was a publicity stunt, but it was too late.  My mother's mind was already made up, she told Jake that it was over, and she was staying in Atlanta."

"And Jake?"

"He lost it a little bit.  He accused my mother of letting my grandfather brainwash her.  I think he felt like she had abandoned him.  The fallout was a mess.  Lawyers were hired, custody arrangements were argued over.  In the end, they awarded my mother full custody of me, but Jake was allowed yearly visits.  That's why he bought the apartment here.  Savannah was close enough that he could see me without my mother having to put me on a plane, but far enough away that reporters wouldn't catch on to where she and I lived.  Every winter break, my mother would drive me down, and I'd spend the holidays with Jacob.

"Your mom trusted him?"

"Not at first.  When Mom was still in college, she would come down with me.  I think she and Jacob were still on and off with each other then, but after she started medical school, she couldn't get the time off.  She agreed to let me go on my own, provided I call every night and Jacob promised he wouldn't drink while I was there."

"And he kept his word?"

"He did actually.  My father was different when he was around me."

A loud boom could be heard in the distance as the Friday fireworks began over the river.  Clarke hunched over the counter, her elbows propping her up as she began playing with her thumbs.  "He wasn't a perfect guy, but I do think he wanted to be a good father."

Lexa smiled, watching for a moment as fireworks broke in the distance.  She stole a glance at the girl next to her, her blue eyes grown glassy, still preoccupied with her digits.  Gently, the pitcher reached out and took one of Clarke's hands in her own, turning it over and tracing small circles into its palm before lacing their fingers together.

"What was he like, Clarke?"

Clarke sniffed, her voice cracking a little as answered the question.  "Funny. He used to make me laugh so hard that I could barely breathe.  He was always telling jokes or doing something silly.  He was pretty patient too.  I'd talk his ear off for hours, and he'd just sit there and listen, even though I think it was hard for him to hear about my life when he wasn't a part of it.

Lexa took Clarke's other hand, wrapping her long fingers around it.  "What was your favorite thing about him?"

Clarke laughed.  "His terrible narration.  Jake was quite a slow reader, but even so, he insisted on reading me to sleep every night during my visits."

"That's pretty charming."

"That was Jake. Petty charming, but not very consistent."

"No?"

Clarke shook her head.  "When we were together, he was present, focused, but when we were apart, his life always seemed to eclipse me.  He'd say he was going to call after a game and then he'd fall asleep or forget.  He'd promise to come see me for school plays and soccer games, but then he'd cancel because of training or show up days late because he'd had to do an interview, or got into trouble."

Clarke wiped the beginnings of tears away from her eyes, refusing to let her emotions get the better of her.  "That photograph in the bedroom, it wasn't even my birthday.  Jacob missed the real party because he'd gotten arrested for being drunk in public.  He showed up a week later and insisted we have another so he could celebrate with me."

Lexa felt heartbroken at the knowledge that Clarke had experienced so much disappointment so early in life.  She thought of her childhood, guiltily remembering the many times she had imagined her father was something more than a town plumber, now profoundly thankful that he'd been so dependable and ordinary.

Clarke straightened up, pulling her hands from Lexa's.  Her composure regained, she began clearing away the empty beer bottled on the counter.  As she moved around the island, she continued to talk, her eyes never glancing up.

"When I was still little, I'd see him on the cover of tabloids and magazines, but I didn't understand any of it.  Back then, he was my hero.  He'd show up out of nowhere and take me out of school so we could spend the day going to the movies or getting ice cream.  He'd send me gifts out of nowhere. But, the bigger his career became, the more often he got into trouble.  As I started getting older, Jake's problems became more visible to me.  For a while, I didn't believe any of it, but then he got his first DUI."

Lexa's brow knit, remembering her uncle and father discussing the debacle in their family's kitchen.  "That was right after the world series, right?"

"Yep."  the reporter continued to busy herself with straightening up the counter.  "Suddenly kids at school were telling me what a jerk my father was.  She paused, filling a glass with water.  "It's the first time I remember being embarrassed about who my dad was."

Clarke sipped her water, tentatively looking at the woman across from her.  "After the DUI, my mother insisted that a nanny had to supervise my visits to Savannah."

"He must have hated that."

"He did.  He stopped coming."

Lexa's eyebrows shot up several inches.  "He stopped coming all together?"

"When I was ten, he told my mother that he was going to start spending the offseason in New York.  He offered to fly me up to see him, but my mom wouldn't let me go, and he didn't put up a fight about it.  He still came home to see me once in a while, but his visits were getting less and less frequent.  Right before my twelfth birthday, he got into that big car crash.  I saw him about a month afterward.  He came home for this important softball game I was playing in.  Like an idiot, I got all excited, because for once he'd showed up when he'd promised to. Afterward, he took me out to dinner.  I thought it was to celebrate, but instead, he ended up telling me that he thought it was best if we didn't see each other for a while."

Lexa had known the detail was coming.  She remembered Clarke telling her that she hadn't had much of a relationship with her father towards the end, but somehow she'd imagined a less abrupt falling out.

"That's… That must have been so hard."

Clarke shrugged.  "Actually, no. It helped.  Granted, it hurt at the time, but I finally realized the kind of man Jacob was.  That was the last time that I saw him before he died."

Something in Clarke's face shifted then, the lines becoming harder. Her shoulders tensed, and the muscles in her neck strained ever so slightly.  "Lexa…"

Lexa held up her hands.  "It's all right Clarke.  We don't have to talk about the accident if you don't want to."

Clarke held in a breath.  "There was no accident."

Lexa froze, suddenly understanding the oath of secrecy Clarke had asked from her.  At that moment, there was nothing to be said, and so she sat, her stomach coiling as though she were watching a bomb fall from the sky.

"Lexa, my father shot himself."

[Leave Comments](http://askinsideabunker.tumblr.com/ask)

**Author's Note:**

> Let's hear what you think!
> 
> Reach out to me here, or on Tumblr/Twitter
> 
> Best way to contact me with feedback: twitter.com/insideabunker  
> Tumblr: insideabunker.tumblr.com


End file.
